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GIRLHOOD  AND  WOMANHOOD: 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES 


On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life, 

Musing  in  Solitude,  I  oft  perceive 

Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 

Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 

Pure,  and  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed; 

And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 

And  dear  remembrances  whose  presence  soothes 

Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 

The  good  or  evil  of  our  mortal  slate.  WORDSWORTH. 


BY  MRS.  A.  J.  GRAVES, 

AUTHOR     Of     WOMAN      IN      AMERICA. 


BOSTON: 

T.  H.  CARTER  &  CO.,  AND  BENJAMIN  B.  MUSSEY. 
1844. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844, 

BY   T.    H.    CARTER   &   CO., 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


A.     J.      WRIGHT,     PRINTER 
No.    3   Water   Street. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


To  ONE  given  to  imaginative  musing,  there  is  no  sight  more 
interesting  than  a  band  of  happy  schoolmates.  And  as  we  look 
on  them  sporting  in  merriment,  unconscious  and  unthinking  of 
what  is  to  befall  them,  how  prone  are  we  to  sketch  out  their 
destiny  by  casting  a  visionary  glance  into  futurity.  We  draw 
the  coloring  from  our  own  experience,  and  our  own  joys  or  sor- 
rows brighten  or  darken  the  picture  of  their  coming  histories. 
If  we  be  hopeful  in  our  nature  and  prosperous  in  life,  we  follow 
each  little  boy  or  girl  through  the  successive  scenes  of  their 
career,  until  one  stands  on  a  proud  height  of  fame  or  fortune, 
and  the  other  takes  her  place  as  a  happy  wife  and  mother,  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  blessings  that  a  husband's  love  can  procure. 
But  if  we  have  learned  to  look  in  saddened  earnestness  on  all 
human  destiny,  through  the  medium  of  stern  adversity  and  our 
own  blighted  hopes,  than  we  will  sigh  deeply  as  we  look  on 
them  and  wish  that  they  could  always  remain  as  they  are,  and 
never  know  what  it  is  to  live  on  to  manhood  and  womanhood, 
to  sustain  the  heavy  burden  of  their  multiplied  cares  and  sorrows. 

This  tendency  of  the  human  mind  to  shadow  forth  what  lies 
hidden  in  the  dim  obscurity  of  the  future,  is  not  without  its  uses 
if  it  be  rightly  and  usefully  applied.  But  if  we  have  no  better 
foundation  for  it,  than  our  own  imagination,  it  is  at  best  but  idle 
dreaming,  and  we  will  be  the  first  to  laugh  at  our  own  romantic 
visions  when  reality  convinces  us  of  their  falsity.  The  school- 
boy who  was  to  have  a  proud  pre-eminence  over  his  fellow-men, 
and  fill  the  world  with  his  name  as  a  genius,  a  statesman  or  a 
warrior,  becomes  a  plain,  plodding  citizen,  buried  amidst  ledgers 
and  piles  ff  merchandise,  without  a  thought  beyond  the  walls 
of  his  counting  house,  or  his  annual  investments  in  bank  stock, 
and  the  fair,  delicate  girl  who  was  to  droop  and  die  in  early 


womanhood,  under  the  blight  of  wounded  affections,  becomes  a 
heartless  coquette  ;  sells  herself  to  some  old  man  for  a  splendid 
establishment,  and  is  found,  at  the  age  of  forty,  a  fat,  buxom 
widow,  ready  for  another  speculation  in  the  marriage  lottery. 
But  if  we  thus  have  occasion  to  acknowledge  ourselves  mistaken 
in  our  prophecies,  and  are  disposed  to  make  merry  over  our 
delusive  fancies,  yet  the  fault  was  our  own. 

If  we  have  looked  on  the  little  group  as  strangers,  and  suf- 
fered our  imaginations  to  dream  improbabilities,  merely  because 
some  boy  might  have  had  dark,  flashing  eyes,  and  a  noble  bearing, 
or  the  soft,  blue  eyes  of  some  little  girl  may  have  been  seen 
suffused  in  tears,  then  we  need  not  wonder  that  our  predictions 
were  fallacious.  But  if  each  individual  child  among  them  had 
been  known  to  us ,  if  we  had  studied  every  opening  character  as 
it  became  unfolded  beneath  our  watchful  observation,  carefully 
marked  every  indication  of  mental  power,  or  mental  weakness, 
rejoicing  in  the  first  rays  of  rising  genius,  or  sadly  brooding  over 
the  leaden  clouds  of  dullness,  then  our  vain  fancies  might  have 
given  place  to  a  prophetic  glance.  When  truth  and  a  sound 
judgment  are  our  basis,  then  we  may  venture  to  predict  what 
will  be,  from  what  is.  Although  we  cannot  pretend  to  foretell 
the  external  condition  of  each  to  any  degree  of  certainty*,  yet 
we  have  a  guide  even  here.  For  the  philosophic  Butler  justly 
remarks,  "  there  is  a  correspondence  be.tween  our  nature  and 
external  condition,"  and  again,  "  that  every  species  of  creatures 
is  designed  for  a  particular  way  of  life  to  which  the  nature, 
capacities,  temper  and  qualifications  are  as  necessary  as  their 
external  circumstances."  When  we  see  the  fledging  bird  in  its 
nest,  we  know  from  its  anatomical  structure  that  it  is  destined 
to  wing  its  way  through  the  free  air  as  its  native  element,  when 
we  examine  the  mollusca  ere  the  shell  has  been  fully  formed, 
we  see  that  its  life  must  be  sustained  in  a  different  %node,  and 
therefore  the  element  on  which  it  is  to  move,  must  be  entirely 
different ;  so  it  Is  with  the  human  character  as  it  is  revealed  in 


the  process  of  expansion.  The  marked  differences  that  exist  in 
individual  minds  and  temperaments,  prove  that  each  one  will 
naturally  seek  that  external  condition  that  corresponds  with  its 
peculiar  organization.  The  boy  that  faints  at  the  sight  of  blood, 
or  trembles  in  nervous  agitation  on  hearing  the  heavy  firing  of 
artillery,  will  never  seek  his  fortune  amidst  the  horrors  or  dan- 
gers of  war,  if  he  be  left  to  follow  the  tendencies  of  his  nature — 
or  the  little  girl  that  steals  away  to  some  quiet  solitude,  that  she 
may  indulge  her  fondness  for  books,  or  fill  her  imagination  with 
visions  of  future  intellectual  eminence,  excited  by  a  mysterious 
consciousness  of  mental  power,  will  never  be  found  striving  with 
restless  vanity  for  the  admiration  of  fashionable  triflers,  amidst 
the  frivolities  of  the  ball  room,  unless  a  violence  has  been  done 
to  her  inclinations  by  the  force  of  a  contrary  training. 

This  instinctive  tendency  in  each  individual  to  avoid  all  that 
is  uncongenial  and  to  seek  its  own  element,  belongs  to  man  in 
his  moral  and  intellectual  nature,  as  well  as  to  the  other  portion 
of  creation  in  their  physical  condition.  But  the  analogy  cannot 
be  pursued  to  its  full  extent,  without  going  beyond  the  limits  of 
truth.  The  bird  and  the  shell-fish  cannot  by  any  mode  of  train- 
ing be  made  different  from  what  they  are,  nor  can  their  instincts 
be  so  far  violated  as  to  confine  the  former  to  the  waters,  or  the 
latter  to  the  air,  without  destroying  their  vitality.  But  our 
nature  is  such  that  human  creatures  are  "  capable  of  becoming 
qualified  for  states  of  life  for  which  they  were  once  unqualified." 
The  germs  of  mind  and  character  are  susceptible  of  being  so  far 
modified  in  their  full  development,  as  to  place  the  future  to  a 
certain  degree  in  the  hands  of  those  whose  duty  it  is  to  train 
them  aright.  And  it  is  here  that  our  insight  into  human  nature, 
and  our  foresight  into  the  future  can  be  usefully  applied  to  the 
benefit  of  those  unconscious  little  creatures  over  whose  destiny 
we  often  so  idly  dream. 

This  work  is  not  intended  to  show  the  effects  of  a  right  train- 
ing upon  the  future  character  or  destiny,  for  its  pictures  are 


VI  PREFACE. 

drawn  from  human  nature  as  it  is  found,  and  not  from  any  ideal 
representation  of  what  it  may  become.  And  in  the  following  aerial 
sketches,  nothing  higher  has  been  attempted  than  to  exhibit 
different  varieties  of  female  character  as  seen  in  girlhood,  and  to 
follow  them  to  their  full  development  in  womanhood,  to  prove  the 
natural  connection  that  exists  between  these  two  important  peri- 
ods. As  the  girl  is,  the  woman  will  be,  unless  some  powerful 
counteraction  has  intervened.  In  drawing  my  portraits  from  the 
inmates  of  a  boarding  school,  instead  of  taking  them  from  the 
members  of  a  family  around  the  domestic  hearth,  it  was  easier 
to  find  the  requisite  varieties,  and  to  study  human  nature  as  it 
usually  presents  itself  unchecked  in  its  tendencies  in  youth, 
and  consequently  seeking  its  own  element  amidst  surrounding 
circumstances  in  maturity.  And  by  exhibiting  a  boarding  school 
under  the  most  favorable  conditions  in  which  it  is  possible  to 
place  one,  and  where  more  was  attempted  than  is  usually  done, 
towards  the  formation  and  modification  of  character,  it  may  be 
seen  how  little  power  can  be  exercised  even  by  the  best  of  teach- 
ers, in  counteracting  evil  tendencies,  or  in  establishing  a  firm 
foundation  of  moral  principle.  The  great  responsibility  of  mak- 
ing man  or  woman  what  they  should  be,  rests  not  upon  teach- 
ers, upon  whom  God  has  not  laid  it,  but  upon  parents,  and  upon 
them  alone.  It  is  in  their  hands  that  the  present  life  and  future 
destiny  of  each  child  are  chiefly  placed,  and  for  which  they 
alone  will  be  called  on,  to  render  in  an  account  at  the  last 
Great  Day  of  reckoning. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE. 

The  Oakwood  School. 9 

CHAPTER  H. 
Sketches  of  my  Schoolmates. 17 

CHAPTER  HI. 
Breaking  up  of  the  School. 36 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Anna  Percival,  or  the  Maniac  Mother.  50 

CHAPTER  V. 
Emily  Howard,  or  the  Gentle  Wife.  67 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Amanda  Malvina  Burton,  or  Fashionable  Ambition.       -        83 

CHAPTER  VH. 
Margaret  Etherington,  or  Family  Pride.  98 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Mary  and  Ellen  Grosvenor,  or  the  Two  Sisters.     -        -      117 

CHAPTER  DC. 
Elizabeth  Harrington,  or  the  History  of  a  Coquette.     -         132 

CHAPTER  X. 
Amelia  Dorrington,  or  the  Lost  One.    -  146 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Matilda  Harwood,  or  the  Imaginary  Invalid.  -        -       152 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Sarah  Sherman,  or  the  Mechanic's  Daughter.        -        -       176 

CHAPTER  XHI. 
Conclusion. 208 


Tit 


GIRLHOOD   AND  WOMANHOOD. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE     OAKWOOD    SCHOOL. 

Hail !  mem'ry,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine, 
From  age  to  age  unnumbered  treasures  shine. 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  place  and  time  are  subject  to  thy  sway ! 

IT  is  generally  considered  an  evidence -of  the  approach 
of  old  age,  when  the  scenes  of  our  youth  return  to  the 
mind  with  a  distinctness  of  impression  that  more  recent 
events  fail  to  produce.  If  this  be  true,  then  I  must  be 
verging  towards  that  retrospective  season  of  life,  for 
memory  has  of  late  been  so  busily  re-touching  the  recol- 
lections of  the  past,  that  they  stand  before  me  in  colors 
as  fresh  and  bright,  as  if  they  were  the  pencilings  of 
yesterday.  The  boarding  school,  with  its  beautifully 
shaded  grounds,  and  the  beloved  teacher,  with  the  little 
band  under  her  maternal  care,  are  so  vividly  portrayed, 
that  it  seems  as  though  I  have  again  returned  to  the 
years  of  my  childhood  and  to  the  friends  of  my  youth. 

In  the  days  of  my  girlhood,  there  were  so  few  good 
schools  among  us,  that  every  parent  in  our  neighborhood, 
who  was  desirous  that  his  daughters  should  know  some- 
thing, beyond  the  mere  mechanical  arts  of  "  reading, 
1* 


10  THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL. 

writing  and  cyphering,"  endeavored  to  place  them  under 
the  care  of  Mrs.  Norville.  However  defective  their 
elementary  education  may  have  been,  it  was  considered 
all-sufficient,  if  they  could  have  the  advantage  of  a  year's 
"  finishing  "  at  Oakwood.  Such  was  the  reputation  that 
thJs  School  obtained,  that  the  frequency  and  urgency  of 
the  applications  for  admission  never  permitted  a  vacancy 
to  continue  unfilled  ;  nor  was  its  celebrity  undeserved, 
for  if  it  be  necessary  for  females  to  learn  in  their  girl- 
hood, those  things  that  they  will  be  called  on  to  practice 
in  their  womanhood,  then  was  the  knowledge  gained 
under  the  judicious  tuition  of  Mrs.  Norville,  of  far 
greater  importance  than  all  the  accomplishments  and  the 
sciences  attempted  to  be  taught  in  most  of  our  female 
academies  of  the  present  day.  It  was  her  endeavor  to 
prepare  her  scholars  for  the  duties  of  after  life — to  make 
them  good  daughters  and  sisters,  and  to  enable  them  to 
become  good  wives,  mothers  and  mistresses  of  families. 
With  regard  to  our  intellectual  education,  her  aim  was 
to  awaken  a  desire  for  knowledge,  to  cultivate  a  taste  for 
literature  and  science,  and  to  direct  us  how  to  proceed  in 
the  duty  of  self-instruction,  instead  of  laboring  to  fill  our 
memories  with  a  certain  amount  of  lessons.  In  our 
moral  culture,  she  was  a  faithful  friend,  a  safe  guide  and 
a  watchful  monitor.  In  the  school-room,  her  govern- 
ment was  strict,  firm  and  decided,  yet  tempered  with 
maternal  kindness  and  sympathy.  In  our  walks  and  re- 
creations, she  was  as  an  elder  sister,  and  a  beloved  com- 
panion. With  her,  we  felt  nothing  like  reserve  or  con- 
straint, but  our  faults  and  our  follies  were  uncon- 
sciously laid  open  before  her.  She  skillfully  led  us  to 
this,  that  she  might  study  our  characters,  so  as  to  know 
how  to  apply  the  remedies  we  needed.  She  was  the 
sun  of  our  little  system,  around  which  we  all  moved  in 
beautiful  harmony. 


THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL.  11 

Mrs.  Norville  had  been  left  a  widow,  with  two  infant 
sons,  and  though  her  husband  was  considered,  during  his 
life,  a  man  of  fortune,  yet  when  his  affairs  were  settled 
by  his  administrators,  she  found  that  Oakwood,  her  fa- 
vorite residence,  was  all  that  remained  to  her.  To  sup- 
port and  educate  her  boys,  she  opened  a  female  boarding 
school,  for  which  she  readily  secured  a  sufficient  number 
of  pupils,  from  her  acknowledged  abilities,  her  station  in 
society  and  her  extended  circle  of  acquaintance.  Some 
of  her  rich  and  worldly  neighbors  freely  commented  on 
the  downfall  of  "  poor  Mrs.  Norville,"  and  when  they 
came  to  her  with  a  patronizing  air  to  proffer  their  aid,  by 
proposing  to  place  their  daughters  under  her  care,  they 
found  to  their  surprise  and  disappointment,  that  the  de- 
ferential respect  with  which  they  had  always  approached 
the  wife  of  the  distinguished  Mr.  Norville,  was  equally 
elicited  by  Mrs.  Norville,  the  governess.  No  feelings 
of  mortified  pride,  or  imaginary  abasement  on  account 
of  altered  circumstances,  were  mingled  with  her  deep  and 
silent  grief  for  a  departed  husband.  In  her  poverty,  she 
felt  and  acted  as  a  Christian.  To  her  it  was  no  degra- 
dation, that  she  was  obliged  to  support  herself  and  her 
children  by  her  own  exertions.  She  was  grateful  to  her 
God,  that  she  still  had  spared  to  her,  a  home  of  her  own ; 
and  the  luxuries  of  wealth,  to  which  she  had  so  long 
been  accustomed,  were  resigned  without  a  murmur  or  a 
sigh.  She  knew  that  affliction  springeth  not  from  the 
dust,  and  hers  was  looked  upon,  as  coming  from  the 
hand  of  an  overruling  Providence,  who  knoweth  what  is 
best  for  his  creatures.  And  to  her,  the  uses  of  adver- 
sity were  richly  revealed,  for  her  character  attained  a 
strength  and  elevation,  and  her  piety  a  devotedness  and 
stability,  that  can  never  be  reached  among  the  enerva- 
ting influences  of  prosperity.  Never  was  there  a  more 
beautiful  exemplification  of  the  Christian  character.  Her 


12  THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL. 

daily  walk  and  conversation,  and  her  every  action 
showed,  that  the  spirit  of  peace  and  love  had  taken  its 
abode  in  her  heart.  In  all  our  transgressions  she  would 
entreat  us  to  ask  forgiveness  of  God,  and  would  make  us 
feel  as  much  contrition  for  having  broken  His  commands 
as  we  of  ourselves  were  ever  ready  to  feel  a  bitter  self- 
reproach,  for  having  acted  contrary  to  her  wishes.  No 
heart  among  us,  however  obdurate  or  rebellious  by 
nature,  could  remain  long  unmoved,  when  we  looked 
upon  her  grieved  countenance  or  listened  to  the  mild, 
sad  tones  of  her  maternal  reproof.  In  her  example,  re- 
ligion became  so  lovely  and  attractive,  that  we  were 
almost  persuaded  to  become  Christians. 

How  well  do  I  remember  our  Sabbath  evenings ! 
These  were  her  especial  seasons,  for  endeavoring  to  instill 
into  our  youthful  minds  those  heavenly  truths  that  had 
elevated  her  above  the  trials  of  life  into  a  region  where 
all  was  calm,  and  holy.  In  the  bright  and  beautiful 
Spring,  the  soft  and  lovely  Summer,  and  in  the  early 
days  of  Autumn,  her  favorite  retreat  on  the  afternoons  of 
that  sacred  day,  was  a  rustic  seat,  beneath  the  drooping 
branches  of  an  aged  elm.  The  view  from  this  spot  was 
rich  and  varied.  The  quiet  meadows  with  their  grazing 
cattle,  the  rich,  dark  woods,  and  the  green  and  lonely 
hills  lay  around  us,  while  away  in  the  hazy  distance,  the 
bay  spread  its  calm,  blue  waters,  where  snowy  sails  were 
gliding,  some  homeward  bound,  and  others  steering  their 
course  to  the  far-off  ocean.  It  was  a  fitting  place  for 
retirement,  and  holy  meditation.  The  only  human  hab- 
itations in  view,  were  two  or  three  lowly  dwellings, 
scattered  at  distant  intervals,  and  the  curling  smoke,  as 
it  floated  away  on  the  evening  breeze,  was  the  only  sign 
of  living  man's  abode.  The  village  church,  surrounded 
by  the  simple  memorials  of  the  dead  that  lay  sleeping 
beneath  them,  was  embosomed  in  a  lovely  valley  that 


THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL.  13 

sloped  away  before  us,  and  seemed  peculiarly  appro- 
priate to  the  holy  quiet,  the  Sabbath  beauty  of  the  scene. 
In  this  sweet  spot,  would  Mrs.  Norville  sit  for  hours, 
surrounded  by  her  little  band  ;  and  with  the  word  of  God 
lying  open  before  her,  and  his  glorious  works  around 
her,  she  would  gradually  impart  to  us  as  we  were  able 
to  receive  it,  a  strong  and  abiding  impression  of  the  wis- 
dom and  goodness  and  power  of  the  great  Creator.  Her 
favorite  passages  in  the  Bible  were  those  which  spoke  of 
the  Saviour,  and  this  was  the  theme  on  which  she  de- 
lighted to  dwell.  The  prophecies  and  promises  that  an- 
nounced his  coming,  and  the  narratives  that  gave  the 
history  of  his  mission  on  earth,  were  most  frequently 
read  and  commented  on,  and  never  shall  I  forgot  the 
heavenly  expression  of  her  countenance,  as  she  spake  to 
us  of  .his  patience,  his  meekness  and  his  compassionate 
love  for  the  guilty  race,  whom  he  died  to  save.  In  the 
works  of  creation,  every  object  around  us,  served  as  a 
text,  from  the  greatest  and  the  most  sublime,  to  the  hum- 
blest and  the  most  minute.  The  sky  with  its  sunset 
hues,  its  rising  morn,  and  evening  stars,  and  the  earth  in 
all  the  varied  beauty  of  its  surface,  down  to  the  weed 
and  the  wild  flower  that  grew  beside  us,  were  by  turns 
the  subjects  upon  which  she  would  pour  out  the  rich 
treasures  of  her  gathered  thoughts.  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  impressive  conversations  that  I  can  now 
recall,  arose  from  a  withered  leaf  which  circling  through 
the  still  air  of  a  lovely  autumnal  day,  fell  rustling  at  our 
feet.  She  took  it  in  her  hand — pointed  out  the  veins 
that  spread  in  innumerable  divisions  over  its  surface — 
the  stem  that  had  connected  to  the  branch  and  the  differ- 
ence between  the  upper  and  the  under  side,  and  then 
explained  to  us  the  wonders  of  its  physiology.  She 
traced  its  progress  from  the  closely  cinctured  leaf-bud  to 
its  full  expansion,  and  its  final  decay ;  and  then  showed 
2 


14  THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL. 

us  that  it  had  fulfilled  its  allotted  work,  in  having  con- 
tributed to  the  nourishment  of  the  parent  tree,  and  had 
now  fallen  to  the  earth  to  mingle  with  its  mould.  This 
train  of  thought  led  her  to  point  out  the  various  objects 
around  us,  which  had  also  performed  the  part  assigned 
them,  by  Him  who  made  them — the  plant  withering 
when  its  flowers  have  passed  away,  and  its  seeds  have 
become  ripened,  and  the  fruit  trees  casting  their  leaves 
as  soon  as  their  rich  treasures  are  ready  for  the  use  of 
man.  She  then  directed  our  attention  to  the  fleecy 
clouds  as  they  floated  onward  over  the  soft  blue  sky,  the 
declining  sun,  and  the  moon's  silvery  crescent  which 
was  also  verging  towards  the  western  horizon,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  show  how  these  too  moved  in  their  appointed 
courses,  and  fulfilled  the  wise  designs  of  Him  who  had 
launched  them  forward  into  illimitable  space.  She  con- 
cluded the  conversation  by  impressing  us  with  the  humil- 
iating thought  that  of  all  that  God  has  created,  it  is  man 
alone,  who  leaves  undone  the  work  allotted  him,  and 
brings  disorder  and  disorganization  into  the  harmonious 
system  of  God's  holy  law.  In  all  the  relations  of  life, 
and  in  his  obligations  to  the  Ruler  of  the  Universe,  it  is 
he  only  who  has  wandered  out  of  the  way,  and  is  found 
wanting. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  impressiveness,  the  eloquence 
with  which  she  spake.  Oh,  that  these  outpourings  of 
her  mind  and  heart,  had  been  engraven  on  some  more 
enduring  tablet  than  the  evanescent  memories  of  young 
and  thoughtless  children  !  Had  they  been  gathered  up 
as  they  fell  from  her  lips,  and  been  written  down  in  all 
the  flowing  beauty  of  her  language,  in  her  own  expres- 
sions so  full  of  the  peculiar  richness  of  her  refined  taste 
and  cultivated  intellect,  and  so  deeply  imbued  with  that 
spirit  of  deep  heartfelt  piety  which  shed  its  soothing, 
purifying  balm  over  all  she  uttered,  then  not  even  the 


THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL.  15 

proud  infidel  could  have  read  the  pages  without  feeling 
his  heart  become  melted  within  him  and  his  spirits  bow- 
ed down  with  the  humility  of  a  little  child,  before  that 
great  and  good  Being  who  made  and  sustains  all  man- 
kind, from  the  man  after  his  own  heart,  to  the  wretched 
ingrate  who  madly  rebels  against  Him  and  vainly  strives 
to  deny  his  existence. 

In  her  choice  of  pupils  Mrs.  Norville  was  influenced 
by  character  and  not  by  wealth  or  station.  The  modest 
daughter  of  a  worthy  mechanic  often  received  a  ready 
admission  when  the  haughty  and  spoiled  child  of  fortune 
was  respectfully  declined.  Though  some  were  accepted 
whom  she  did  not  entirely  approve  as  companions  for  her 
scholars  yet  these  were  the  children  of  intimate  acquaint- 
ance whom  she  could  not  easily  refuse.  The  characters 
of  the  Oakwood  scholars  were  as  various  and  diverse  as 
their  situations  in  life — the  vain  and  the  retiring — the 
proud  and  the  humble — the  indolent  and  the  industrious 
and  the  dull  and  the  intelligent.  Each  class  had  also  its 
representatives,  from  the  daughters  of  the  rich  planter, 
the  wealthy  merchant  and  the  distinguished  professional 
man,  to  the  children  of  the  aspiring  shop-keeper  and  the 
humble  mechanic.  Such  were  the  discordant  materials 
and  the  opposing  forces  out  of  which  Mrs.  Norville  pro- 
duced an  agreeable  combination,  and  a  harmonious  system. 
There  was  nothing  that  pained  her  benevolent  spirit 
more,  than  to  see  the  evil  effects  of  imaginary  distinctions 
in  society  manifesting  themselves  among  her  pupils. — 
She  endeavored  to  make  us  feel  that  we  were  a  band  of  sis- 
ters, and  that  in  the  eye  of  God  we  were  all  equals.  I  have 
never  met  a  human  being  who  was  more  elevated  above  the 
prejudices  of  society  than  our  beloved  preceptress.  She 
viewed  the  various  states  and  conditions  of  men  with  the 
eye  of  a  philosopher,  an  American  and  a  Christian.  She 
would  ofterj  tell  us  that  of  all  countries  ours  should  be  the 


16  THE    OAKWOOD    SCHOOL. 

last,  where  the  folly  of  measuring  a  man's  standing  by 
his  riches  should  be  found,  for  in  no  other  are  fortunes  so 
ephemeral  or  do  wealth  and  honors  so  frequently  pass 
from  one  to  another.  She  said  that  even  in  the  sphere 
of  her  observation  she  had  seen  the  daughter  of  the  once 
wealthy  merchant  became  the  wife  of  a  laboring  mechan- 
ic, and  the  son  of  a  village  cobbler  united  to  the  portion- 
less child  of  an  aristocratic  planter.  And  that  she  had 
known  several  instances,  where  females  born  and  reared 
in  affluence,  had  become  obliged  to  labor  for  their  subsist- 
ence, as  tailoresses  or  seamstresses,  and  in  two  or  three 
eases  even  as  hirelings  to  those  who  once  would  have 
thought  it  an  honor  to  have  been  permitted  to  claim  their 
acquaintance. 

In  trying  to  convince  us  of  the  absurdity  of  entrench- 
ing ourselves  behind  these  conventional  outworks,  thrown 
up  by  those  who  endeaver  to  create  artificial  distinctions 
in  social  life,  Mrs.  Norville  would  frequently  tell  us  that  it 
was  only  the  really  vulgar  who  need  them.  For  the  man 
or  woman  of  refinement  and  intelligence  is  never  in 
danger  of  being  intruded  upon,  by  the  rude  or  unculti- 
vated or  by  those  whose  habits  render  them  unfit  as- 
sociates. Arbitrary  divisions  such  as  are  made  in  fash- 
ionable life,  serve  only  to  keep  the  wealthy  vulgar  from 
the  indigent  vulgar,  and  were  they  abolished,  society 
would  gain  much  more  than  it  would  lose.  Every  one 
feels  more  deeply  conscious  of  their  own  position  than 
others  can  force  them  to  acknowledge  by  external  arrange- 
ments, for  it  is  the  natural  tendency  of  society  to  sepa- 
rate into  different  classes,  those  who  assimilate  in  minds, 
tastes  and  pursuits.  Such  were  the  sentiments  often  ex- 
pressed by  our  venerated  preceptress  and  so  deeply  did 
she  feel  the  injustice  of  this  fancied  superiority  of  one 
over  another,  and  the  folly  of  these  petty  distinctions, 
that  she  endeavored  in  various  ways  to  enlighten  our 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.         17 

minds  on  this  subject  and  to  bring  us  to  a  proper  state  of 
feeling  and  acting  towards  each  other.  While  with  her 
we  almost  became  in  this  respect,  all  that  she  wished, 
but  how  often  in  after  life  have  I  thought  of  our  dear 
teacher's  labors  and  sighed  to  think  how  soon  their  good 
effects  passed  away. 


CHAPTER    II. 

SKETCHES      OF     M Y    S C H O O L M A T E 8 . 

Our  old  companions — now  perchance 
Estranged,  forgot,  or  dead — 
Come  round  us  as  the  autumn  leaves 
Are  crushed  beneath  our  tread ! 

MRS.   NORTON. 

WHEN  memory  re-touches  the  faded  images  of  the  Past, 
and  brings  again  before  me,  my  school-mates  at  Oakwood, 
pursuing  their  studies  under  the  guidance  of  Mrs.  Nor- 
ville  or  sporting  in  all  the  innocent  gayety  of  childhood, 
under  the  shady  oaks  that  surrounded  her  dwelling,  it 
pains  my  heart,  to  recall  the  subsequent  history  of  some 
of  the  loveliest  among  them.  As  yet,  the  world  was  to 
us,  afar  off,  with  its  untried  realities,  its  vicissitudes  and  its 
bitter  trials.  To  me  girlhood  has  always  been  the  most 
interesting  of  all  ages  from  the  recollection  of  my  happy 
school-days  and  my  beloved  companions.  For  it  is  then, 
that  the  thoughtless  levity  of  infancy  is  gradually  giving 
place  to  the  awakening  thoughts  and  stirring  affections 
of  approaching  womanhood,  while  its  sweet  ingenuousness 
and  simplicity  are  still  retained.  And  sad  it  is  to  think 
that  these  feelings,  still  fresh  with  the  dew  of  youth,  mar 
2* 


18          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

ere  long  be  withered  by  the  cold  and  heartless  maxims 
of  worldly  policy  or  be  crushed  under  the  blighting  ef- 
fects of  earthly  sorrow. 

My  favorite  friend  among  the  pupils  of  Oakwood,  was 
Anna  Percival.  Though  there  was  little  similarity  either 
in  our  minds  or  characters,  yet  this  very  difference  seem- 
ed to  unite  us  more  closely  by  rendering  us  necessary  to 
each  other.  Her  devoted  attachment  to  me  softened  my 
natural  reserve  and  opened  the  sealed  fountain  of  my  af- 
fections. Although  we  were  nearly  of  the  same  age, 
yet  I  was  to  her  as  an  elder  sister.  She  came  to  me  for 
assistance  in  her  studies  and  all  her  little  grievances  were 
wept  into  calmness  upon  my  bosom.  Her  sensibilities 
were  naturally  keen  and  had  become  morbidly  so,  under 
the  unlimited  indulgence  of  a  widowed  mother.  The 
slightest  appearance  of  neglect  or  indifference  in  those 
she  loved,  caused  her  more  suffering  than  others  would 
have  felt  from  unkindness  or  harshness.  If  at  any  time, 
I  was  lost  in  thought  and  did  not  notice  her  approach 
with  my  usual  attention,  she  would  imagine  I  was  offend- 
ed and  with  tearful  eyes  would  ask  me  if  I  was  displeased 
with  her.  The  sight  of  pain  or  anguish  was  more  than 
she  could  bear,  and  I  have  seen  her  turn,  shuddering,  from 
a  wounded  bird  or  a  crushed  insect,  while  her  counte- 
nance vividly  expressed  the  keenness  of  her  sympathy. 
Oh  how  much  need  was  there  of  a  guiding  hand  to 
strengthen  and  prepare  her  for  the  pilgrimage  of  life  ! — 
She  was  unfitted  for  the  world  and  for  earth's  alloyed 
happiness.  Ever  vacillating  between  the  extremes  of  joy 
or  sorrow,  one  moment  she  would  be  almost  wild  in  the 
exuberance  of  her  spirits  and  the  next  she  would  be 
convulsed  with  grief,  from  some  cause  which  in  one  of  a 
different  temperament  would  scarcely  have  given  rise  to 
a  tear.  Mrs.  Norville  would  often  say  to  me  "  my  dear 
Ellen  this  sensitive  child  needs  much  of  our  care,  her 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.  19 

attachment  to  you,  places  a  great  deal  in  your  power  and 
we  must  both  endeavor  to  fortify  her  mind  and  bring  her 
sensibilities  into  healthful  action." 

Anna  Percival  was  gentle,  loving  and  kind  to  all,  but 
wherever  her  affections  were  bestowed,  she  gave  them 
up  so  unreservedly,  so  trustingly,  that  her  whole  heart 
and  happiness  were  yielded  to  another's  keeping.  My 
beautiful  Anna  Percival !  it  seems  as  though  I  can  see 
thee  now,  in  all  the  graceful  loveliness  of  girlhood,  seat- 
ed upon  a  grassy  bank,  rapturously  caressing  the  young- 
est of  our  youthful  band,  the  pet  and  the  play-thing  of 
all — as  if  I  can  yet  feel  the  fond  pressure  of  thy  encircling 
arms,  when  we  met  after  a  short  absence. 

There  was  another  of  my  schoolmates  whose  charac- 
ter was  in  some  respects  silmilar  to  that  of  Anna  Perci- 
val, but  whose  feelings  were  less  keen  or  better  regulated 
than  those  of  my  sensitive  friend.  Emily  Howard  was 
one  of  the  gentlest  of  human  beings.  She  always  re- 
minded me  of  a  calm,  beautiful  lake,  whose  placid  surface 
reflected  the  cloudless  summer  sky.  Nothing  seemed  to 
have  power  to  disturb  the  serenity  of  her  mind.  Her 
disposition  was  naturally  amiable  and  it  was  rendered 
still  more  so,  by  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  had  sur- 
rounded her  from  childhood.  Sources  of  irritation,  sor- 
row or  disappointment  were  alike  unknown  to  her,  for 
though  her  Mother  had  died  in  giving  her  birth,  she 
never  felt  the  loss,  for  her  surviving  parent  had  added  a 
Mother's  tenderness  to  a  Father's  love.  She  had  been 
nourished  in  an  atmosphere  of  affection  and  had  never 
heard  the  language  of  reproof  or  unkindness.  In  her 
infancy,  her  father  would  hang  over  her  cradle  to  watch 
her  as  she  slept  and  as  she  grew  older  she  was  his  con- 
stant companion.  His  love  seemed  to  become  still  more 
devoted  as  her  resemblance  to  his  departed  wife  became 
more  apparent.  He  almost  worshiped  her,  and  he  fond- 


20  SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

ly  deemed  her  worthy  of  his  idolatry.  He  had  been  her 
only  teacher  until  finding  there  were  accomplishments 
that  needed  a  female  hand,  he  placed  her  under  the  tem- 
porary charge  of  Mrs.  Norville,  but  nothing  save  a  sense 
of  the  duty  he  owed  his  daughter  could  have  induced  him 
to  make  the  sacrifice.  Though  he  resided  at  some  dis- 
tance from  Oakwood  yet  he  never  suffered  a  week  to  pass 
without  seeing  his  beloved  Emily.  How  often  have  I 
witnessed  these  happy  meetings.  He  would  fold  her  to 
his  heart  as  if  they  had  been  separated  for  years.  He 
would  sit  by  her  side,  hold  her  hand  in  his,  and  gaze  on 
her  beautiful  countenance,  as  if  earth  held  for  him  but 
one  object  of  interest  or  attraction — his  own  idolized 
daughter.  I  have  seen  my  Anna  Percival's  dark  eye  be- 
come suffused  in  tears  as  she  looked  on  them,  and  once 
she  grasped  Emily's  hand  when  her  father  left  her  and 
said  "My  dearest  Emily,  oh  is  it  not  too  much  happiness, 
to  be  thus  tenderly  loved  ! 


As  ideas  and  remembrances  are  as  frequently  associated 
by  contrast  as  by  resemblance,  I  suppose  it  is  owing  to 
this,  that  the  image  of  Amanda  Malvina  Burton  next 
presents  itself.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  shopkeeper 
in  the  neighboring  village,  whose  highest  ambition  was 
to  see  his  daughter  become  a  fine  lady  and  prospectively 
a  rich  heiress.  Setting  aside  the  former  folly,  which  I 
think  could  not  have  come  naturally  to  him,  but  must  have 
been  suggested  by  his  wife,  he  was  a  shrewd,  sensible 
little  man  arid  the  very  prince  of  shopkeepers.  If  an  old 
woman  came  in  for  a  cent's  worth  of  tobacco  for  her  pipe, 
a  little  girl  for  a  skein  of  thread,  or  a  fashionable  lady 
condescended  to  stand  beside  his  counter  to  look  over  his 
new  goods,  the  civil  Mr.  Burton  gave  to  each  an  equal 
share  of  attention.  But  it  was  not  so  with  his  aspiring 
wife,  she  would  always  prefer  administering  to  the  ca- 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          21 

prices  of  the  "  quality,"  as  she  called  them,  with  the  ut- 
most obsequiousness,  rather  than  to  sell  any  article  for 
twenty-five  per  cent  profit  to  her  humble  neighbors.  She 
had  high  notions  of  gentility  and  was  continually  drill- 
ing her  husband,  so  as  to  teach  him  to  behave  like  a 
gentleman.  Her  ideas  of  fashionable  life  were  drawn 
from  a  few  obsolete  novels,  which  her  mother  had  brought 
with  her  from  England,  and  she  had  named  her  daugh- 
ter after  her  favorite  heroine,  in  "  the  Children  of  the 
Abbey"  a  work  now  almost  forgotten,  but  which  was 
many  years  ago  a  reigning  favorite  with  all  great  novel 
readers. 

When  Mr.  Burton  happened  to  indulge  himself  in  any 
of  our  indigenous  habits,  which  his  wife  stigmatized  as 
American  vulgarities  he  would  listen  very  patiently  to 
her  code  of  instructions  on  the  true  mode  of  becoming  a 
gentleman,  and  of  raising  his  family  in  the  world,  but  he 
secretly  determined  to  follow  his  own  plan,  formed  from 
a  shrewd  observation  upon  American  life  and  manners 
and  which  from  the  experience  of  others  he  knew  to  be 
the  best.  He  was  already  worth  many  thousands,  and 
in  a  year  or  two  he  intended  to  remove  to  the  commer- 
cial Emporium,  and  commence  a  mercantile  establish- 
ment upon  an  extended  scale.  And  as  soon  as  he  had 
ostensibly  realized  his  half  a  million,  and  entered  upon 
a  style  of  living,  equal  to  his  credit,  he  was  confident 
that  his  wife  and  daughter  would  then  attain  the  summit 
of  "  good  society,"  and  that  he  would  be  considered  a 
gentleman  of  standing,  from  the  show  and  glitter  of  ex- 
ternal appliances  without  the  necessity  of  making  any 
change  in  his  own  mind  or  manners. 

When  it  was  known  that  Mrs.  Norville  was  left  in 
destitute  circumstances,  after  the  death  of  her  husband, 
Mr.  Burton  who  had  formerly  been  under  many  obliga- 
tions to  Mr.  Norville,  while  he  was  his  overseer,  endeav- 


22          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

ored  to  requite  them  by  offering  to  render  every  assistance 
in  his  power.  And  when  he  afterwards  came  to  request 
her  to  admit  his  daughter  among  her  pupils,  her  grateful 
remembrance  of  even  a  proffered  kindness  prevented  a 
refusal.  There  was  much  whispering  among  our  school- 
mates, when  it  was  discovered  that  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Burton  was  to  be  received  at  Oakwood.  Mrs.  Burton's 
parting  injunction  to  Amanda  as  she  left  home,  was  that 
she  should  "  hold  up  her  head  as  high  as  any  of  us"  but  to 
Amanda  such  a  charge  was  needless,  for  she  talked  and 
acted  as  if  she  were  a  princess.  It  was  her  delight  to  get 
a  group  of  girls  around  her,  and  tell  them  long  histories 
of  the  lords  and  ladies  her  grandfather  had  known  in 
England.  Lord  Dormer's  castle,  its  saloons  and  corri- 
dors, was  a  favorite  theme,  and  she  would  say  that  her 
grandfather  and  this  nobleman  were  so  intimate  that  they 
saw  each  other  every  day,  which  was  not  at  all  surpris- 
ing as  he  was  Lord  Dormer's  gamekeeper,  but  of  this, 
she  was  intentionally  kept  ignorant  by  her  weak-minded 
mother.  She  would  often  regret  that  her  mother's  fami- 
ly had  left  England,  where  they  had  such  opportunities 
of  mingling  in  so  much  better  society  than  could  be  found 
in  America.  She  often  spoke  of  her  grandfather's  estate 
that  he  purchased  when  he  first  emigrated  to  this  country, 
and  it  would  often  cause  a  smile  in  the  faces  of  the  few 
who  had  heard  that  it  was  a  ten  acre  lot,  he  cultivated  as 
a  market  garden.  She  could  not  describe  any  thing  with- 
out an  hyperbole,  and  with  her  the  most  common  objects 
became  invested  with  beauty  or  grandeur — a  grass  plat 
was  styled  a  lawn  and  a  lawn  became  a  park  ;  her  father's 
two  story  house  was  a  mansion  and  the  little  room  open- 
ing into  the  shop  by  a  glass  door  was  dignified  by  the 
name  of  a  drawing-room.  And  strange  it  was  that  with 
her  aspiring  notions,  she  was  not  discontented  with  the 
reality,  but  it  was  not  so,  for  she  would  pass  through  her 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          23 

father's  well-filled  store  which  was  the  only  entrance  to 
their  setting  room,  with  as  stately  a  step  as  if  it  were  the 
spacious  hall  of  some  lofty  dwelling.  Her  imaginary 
consequence  seemed  all  sufficient  for  her  enjoyment. — 
Notwithstanding  her  folly,  she  was  a  well  meaning,  amia- 
ble girl  and  under  more  judicious  culture  than  her  parents 
were  able  to  give  her,  might  have  made  a  fine  woman. 

There  was  one  of  my  school-mates  who  seemed  as  if 
she  never  could  become  reconciled  to  the  idea,  of  being 
associated  in  daily  companionship  with  Amanda  Malvina 
Burton.  And  unfortunately  she  was  the  very  one  with 
whom  Amanda  was  most  desirous  of  being  intimate,  be- 
cause she  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
respectable  families  in  the  State.  Margaret  Etherington 
was  aristocratic  by  nature  and  education.  She  was  proud 
of  her  name  and  proud  of  her  descent,  for  from  the  ear- 
liest days  of  the  colony  down  to  the  present,  the  family 
of  the  Etherington's  had  been  among  the  highest  in  the 
land.  And  never  was  any  high-born  English  dame,  who 
could  trace  her  ancestry  up  to  one  of  the  royal  houses  of 
the  kingdom,  fonder  of  dwelling  on  the  records  of  the 
past,  than  was  Margaret  Eiherington.  Though  the  idea 
of  coming  in  contact  with  the  plebeian  or  the  vulgar  was 
abhorrent  to  her,  yet  she  was  simple  in  her  manners  and 
entirely  devoid  of  restless  pretension.  Proudly  conscious 
of  her  own  high  lineage,  she  imagined  that  others  were 
equally  aware  of  it,  and  therefore  seldom  or  never  spoke 
of  her  ancestors.  She  knew  that  her  father  was  not  as 
wealthy  as  he  had  been,  but  so  far  from  considering  her- 
self less  entitled  to  respect  on  this  account,  she  thought 
the  name  of  Etherington  a  sufficient  passport  to  distinc- 
tion, in  any  company  with  whom  she  might  happen  to  be 
associated.  To  her,  a  regard  or  anxiety  about  money, 
appeared  to  be  the  business  of  factors  and  tradesmen,  but 


24          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

to  regret  the  loss  of  wealth  was  far  beneath  the  dignity 
of  a  planter  or  a  planter's  daughter. 

With  all  her  pride,  Margaret  Etherington,  was  a  favo- 
rite of  mine.  There  was  a  quiet  dignity  of  manner,  a 
graceful  simplicity  about  her,  and  so  much  high-souled 
and  honorable  feeling  that  she  won  the  esteem  and  respect 
of  all.  She  possessed  great  energy  of  character  and  a  mas- 
culine strength  of  intellect,  and  under  the  tuition  of  her 
father  she  had  pursued  those  classical  studies  and  exten- 
sive attainments  in  science,  to  which  few  females  are  per- 
mitted to  have  access.  She  felt  an  utter  contempt  for 
every  species  of  falsehood,  deception  or  outward  seeming, 
and  every  thing  she  said  or  did  was  characterized  by  a 
noble  candor,  and  a  fearless  independence.  Mrs.  Norville 
was  very  much  interested  in  her  as  a  pupil  and  a  relative, 
and  while  she  valued  her  for  the  sterling  virtues  she  pos- 
sessed, faithfully  endeavored  to  lessen  her  pride,  by  con- 
vincing her  of  its  folly,  and  tried  to  impress  upon  her  the 
necessity  enjoined  on  her  to  study  and  practice  economy, 
in  the  present  situation  of  her  father's  concerns.  But 
Margaret  had  never  heard  the  word  economy  used  in  her 
ancestral  home,  except  as  synonymous  with  meanness  or 
penuriousness.  and  it  was  hard  to  induce  her  to  believe  it 
to  be  a  virtue.  Mrs.  Norville  saw  what  was  before  her, 
and  feared  that  her  family  pride  would  prove  a  source  of 
much  suffering,  should  she  ever  be  forced  to  earn  her  own 
subsistence — and  she  often  labored  to  bring  her  to  a  better 
state  of  feeling.  But  it  was  a  task  not  easily  to  be  ac- 
complished and  I  have  seen  Margaret's  dark  eye  flash,  as 
her  proud  spirit  rebelliously  rose,  when  Mrs.  Norville 
would  tell  her  that,  independent  of  her  personal  qualities, 
she  was  in  reality  no  better  entitled  to  respect  than  the 
daughter  of  her  father's  overseer.  Poor  Margaret  Ethe- 
rington !  to  her  the  duty  of  Christian  humility  was  a 
lesson  that  nothing  earthly  could  teach,  but  the  bitter  ex- 
perience of  long  continued  adversity ! 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.  25 

There  Were  two  sisters  who  were  for  a  short  time,  pupils 
at  Oakwood,  in  whom  I  felt  very  much  interested.  They 
had  been  educated  at  home  in  much  seclusion  and  had 
mingled  very  little  with  girls  of  their  own  age.  Though 
this  had  made  them  reserved  when  with  strangers,  yet  it 
had  preserved  them  from  many  evils  resulting  from  the 
association  of  numbers,  and  which  the  most  careful  instruc- 
tress cannot  always  guard  against.  The  lovers  of  gossip, 
the  retailers  of  family  secrets,  and  those  who  were  prone 
to  talk  on  forbidden  or  improper  subjects  found  nothing 
congenial  in  Mary  and  Ellen  Grosvenor.  With  the  cul- 
tivated understanding  of  maturity,  they  retained  the  sim- 
plicity, the  innocence,  and  the  mental  purity  of  childhood. 
Evil  example  with  its  contaminating  influence,  appeared 
to  have  no  power  to  harm  them,  as  their  principles  had 
become  strengthened  by  a  home  education,  before  they 
entered  upon  the  ordeal  of  a  boarding-school.  Whatever 
may  be  urged  in  favor  of  a  public  education  for  boys 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  private  one  is  preferable  for 
girls.  To  be  convinced  of  this  let  any  mother  look  back 
upon  her  school-days  and  reflect  on  the  evil  influence  that 
one  bad  disposed  child  has  often  exerted  upon  young  and 
impressible  minds,  unless  they  had  been  previously  guard- 
ed by  careful  parental  training.  The  school  at  Oakwood 
united  as  far  as  it  was  possible  the  advantages  of  home 
and  school  education — and  the  system  pursued  by  Mrs. 
Norville  was  more  like  that  of  a  mother  than  a  mere  in- 
structress, yet  even  with  all  the  faithful  guardianship 
and  constant  solicitude  with  which  she  hovered  around  us, 
even  in  our  hours  of  unrestrained  amusement,  there  were 
one  or  two  who  evaded  her  watchful  care  by  bringing 
among  us  immoral  works,  poisonous  to  the  unsuspect- 
ing credulity  of  childhood.  And  if  such  abuses  could 
creep  stealthily  in,  under  a  preceptress  such  as  she  was, 
what  must  be  the  case  in  a  crowded  boarding-school, 
3 


26          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

where  external  discipline  is  entirely  depended  on,  and 
where  little  or  no  care  is  taken  in  the  cultivation  of  moral 
principles — and  where  the  opportunities  for  successful  de- 
ception are  so  frequent,  as  even  to  discourage  those  who 
endeavor  to  unite  both  modes  in  training  the  young  com- 
mitted to  their  care.  "If  I  had  ten  daughters,"  said  a  lady 
who  once  kept  a  boarding-school,  while  addressing  a 
mother  on  female  education,  "  not  one  of  them  should 
ever  enter  a  boarding-school,  you  are  therefore  right, 
madam,  in  wishing  to  keep  yours  under  your  own  super- 
vision." 

The  contrast  between  Mary  and  Ellen  Grosvenor  and 
some  of  the  pupils  who  had  previously  spent  some  years 
at  fashionable  boarding-schools  was  often  strikingly  ap- 
parent, and  afforded  the  most  powerful  inferences  in  favor 
of  private  education.  If  a  book  were  offered  to  the  sis- 
ters with  a  caution  not  to  let  Mrs.  Norville  see  it,  they 
would  instantly  decline  taking  it  and  appear  surprised 
that  any  one  could  wish  to  read  what  their  instructress 
disapproved. 

I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  example  of  sisterly  affec- 
tion than  existed  between  these  two  interesting  girls. — 
Each  seemed  to  prefer  the  other  above  herself.  And 
whenever  Mrs.  Norville  praised  one  sister,  any  one  would 
have  supposed  it  was  the  other  from  the  sparkle  of  her 
eye  and  the  flush  of  gratified  feeling  that  passed  over 
her  countenance.  Though  their  characters  were  differ- 
ent yet  they  were  the  same  in  their  tastes  and  pursuits. 
They  read  the  same  books,  enjoyed  the  same  scenes,  and 
loved  the  same  studies, 

as  if  their  minds 

Had  been  incorporate.     So  they  grew  together 
Like  to  a  double  cherry  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  an  union  in  partition  ; 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem, 
So  with  two  seeming  bodies  but  one  heart. 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          27 

And  happy  was  it  for  them,  that  they  were  thus  richly 
blest  in  each  other's  society,  for  those  gifted  with  minds 
and  tastes  like  theirs,  seldom  find  congeniality  or  com- 
panionship among  a  general  acquaintance. 

From  their  quiet  reserve,  a  casual  observer  might  pass 
them  without  notice,  but  a  judge  of  character  would  soon 
discover  there  was  a  rich  mine  of  intellectual  and  moral 
worth  lying  beneath  it — and  that  they  possessed  warm 
and  disinterested  affections  and  hearts  full  of  tenderness, 
sympathy  and  kindness.  Indeed  no  one  could  know 
Mary  and  Ellen  Grosvenor  intimately,  without  loving 
and  honoring  them.  I  regretted  very  much  that  they 
were  obliged  to  leave  Oakwood  on  account  of  the  removal 
of  their  parents  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country.  And 
often  did  I  think  of  these  lovely,  retiring  sisters,  and  wish 
there  were  more  like  them  to  be  found  in  our  schools  and 
around  our  firesides.  For  it  is  such  as  these,  that  shed 
the  light  of  moral  purity  over  all  with  whom  they  associ- 
ate, and  surround  the  domestic  hearth  with  a  halo  of  love, 
peace  and  intellectual  refinement. 

Ellen  and  Mary  Grosvenor  had  a  cousin,  also  a  pupil 
of  Mrs.  Norville,  but  who  was  wholly  different  from  them 
in  disposition,  mind  and  character.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  worldly  parents,  had  spent  several  years  at  a  city 
boarding-school  and  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  an  incipi- 
ent woman  of  fashion.  Every  thing  that  Elizabeth 
Harrington  said  or  did  was  intended  for  effect,  and  so  ef- 
fectually had  she  learned  the  art  of  suiting  herself  to  the 
tastes  of  all  in  order  to  secure  their  admiration,  that  it 
was  difficult  to  decide  what  was  her  real  character.  Her 
various  affectations  sat  so  naturally  and  so  gracefully  upon 
her,  that  every  one  who  saw  her  for  the  first  time  gave 
her  the  credit  of  being  what  she  assumed.  Her  mind 
was  shallow  and  uncultivated,  yet  possessing  a  quick,  re*- 


28          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

tentive  memory,  ready  conversational  powers  and  a  great 
deal  of  tact,  she  passed  with  the  generality  of  persons 
for  a  girl  of  intelligence  and  information.  I  have  often 
been  struck  with  the  contrast  between  her  and  her  cous- 
ins. She  would  deliver  her  opinions  on  any  subject, 
with  an  ease  and  assurance  that  to  the  superficial  would 
appear  to  proceed  from  a  thorough  knowledge  of  it — 
while  the  shrinking  dread  of  display  that  characterized 
Mary  and  Ellen  Grosvenor  kept  the  rich  treasures  of 
their  well  stored  minds  concealed,  except  to  the  few  with 
whom  they  were  intimate. 

Elizabeth  Harrington  was  born  a  coquette  and  her  love 
of  conquest  was  as  insatiable  as  Alexander's,  and  she  too 
would  have  wept  had  she  found  no  more  hearts  to  con- 
quer. She  was  a  perfect  Proteus.  When  surrounded 
by  her  schoolmates,  she  would  be  herself,  but  if  any 
strangers  entered,  her  whole  manner  and  even  the  tone 
of  her  voice  would  be  instantly  changed.  One  moment 
she  would  be  a  laughing,  romping  hoyden  and  the  next 
she  would  appear  all  softness,  gentleness  and  sensibility. 

The  duties  of  the  school  were  irksome  to  her,  she  dis- 
liked study  and  never  did  a  heart-sick  captive  more  ar- 
dently long  for  the  sweets  of  liberty,  than  did  Elizabeth 
Harrington  for  the  time  to  arrive,  when  she  could  enter 
into  the  gayeties  and  frivolities  of  fashionable  life.  Mrs. 
Norville  endeavored  to  show  the  futility  of  such  pleasures 
by  contrasting  them  with  the  only  true  sources  of  hap- 
piness, but  her  labors  were  ineffectual  by  being  constantly 
counteracted  by  her  visits  to  her  parents  and  the  frequent 
letters  of  her  mother,  filled  with  descriptions  of  the  last 
ball,  rout,  or  dinner  party.  Her  anxiety  to  leave  school 
was  at  length  gratified  and  at  an  early  age  when  she 
ought  still  to  have  been  at  her  studies,  she  had  launched 
forth  upon  the  tide  of  fashionable  follies,  without  a  rudder 
to  direct  her  course  through  the  dangerous  voyage  or  an 
anchor  to  steady  the  frail  bark  in  the  hour  of  tempest. 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          29 

There  was  another  girl  among  my  schoolmates  who 
possessed  all  the  vanity  and  fondness  for  admiration  that 
distinguished  Elizabeth  Harrington,  but  with  fewer  re- 
deeming qualities.  Elizabeth  with  all  her  faults  was  a 
pleasant  and  popular  companion,  she  was  always  so  ready 
to  do  a  favor  for  any  one  that  requested  it,  so  good  tem- 
pered and  so  free  from  selfishness  that  we  could  not  help 
loving  her.  But  Amelia  Dorrington  was  entirely  the 
reverse.  She  was  an  only  child  and  an  heiress,  and  from 
earliest  infancy  had  been  so  accustomed  to  find  all  around 
her  giving  up  their  comfort  and  happiness  to  hers,  that 
she  still  exacted  it  as  a  right  from  all  with  whom  she 
associated.  In  our  hours  of  recreation,  if  we  refused  to 
enter  into  the  amusements  that  she  happened  to  prefer, 
she  would  try  to  mar  our  enjoyment  by  every  scheme 
that  her  petty  malice  could  suggest.  If  she  failed  to  at- 
tract the  especial  notice  of  Mrs.  Norville's  visitors,  she 
would  vent  her  spleen  upon  the  one  who  had  excited  the 
most  attention.  But  she  seldom  had  reason  to  become 
dissatisfied  or  ill-tempered  from  this  cause,  for  she  was 
so  rarely,  so  exquisitely  beautiful,  that  she  arrested  the 
admiration  of  all  who  saw  her.  When  she  first  entered 
as  a  pupil  at  Oakwood,  we  were  all  captivated  by  her 
surpassing  loveliness.  Her  graceful  little  figure,  moulded 
in  faultless  proportion,  her  brilliant  eyes  shaded  by  their 
long  dark  lashes,  the  perfect  outline  of  her  youthful 
features  and  the  peculiar  richness  of  her  silken  hair, 
falling  in  curls  around  her  fair  shoulders,  made  up  a  pic- 
ture of  beauty  such  as  I  never  have  seen  equalled.  Poor 
child  !  happy  had  it  been  for  her  to  have  been  laid  in  the 
grave  even  in  all  her  youthful  loveliness,  than  to  have  lived 
on  as  she  did  until  the  evil  passions  that  were  then  awak- 
ening in  her  breast  had  thrown  her  a  shattered  wreck  up- 
on the  rocks  of  vice  and  wretchedness ! 
3* 


30          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

The  next  schoolmate  that  memory  presents,  was  a  gay 
little  creature  named  Matilda  Harwood.  She  was  full 
of  life  and  animation  and  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  had 
power  to  check  the  flow  of  her  spirits.  If  her  studies 
were  difficult  she  only  laughed  over  them  and  if  she  met 
with  any  grievances  the  smile  returned  to  her  lips,  while 
the  tear  was  in  her  eye.  She  was  constantly  tempting  us 
to  ill-timed  merriment  and  in  the  midst  of  the  most  dif- 
ficult problem  or  while  listening  to  the  explanation  of 
some  subject  that  required  our  undivided  attention,  if  she 
could  only  succeed  in  attracting  a  glance  of  our  eyes  to- 
wards her,  she  would  excite  an  uncontrollable  burst  of 
laughter,  by  some  action  or  gesture.  Our  instructor  in 
astronomy  was  one  of  the  gravest  of  men  and  with  him 
this  was  unpardonable,  and  we  would  have  to  bear  his 
reproofs,  while  she  would  put  on  so  sober  a  face  when  he 
looked  round  to  discover  the  cause  of  our  mirth,  that  she 
always  escaped  suspicion.  I  never  saw  any  one  who  pos- 
sessed so  keen  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  ;  she  could  find 
cause  for  laughter  where  no  one  else  could,  and  if  a  mer- 
ry thought  came  across  her  mind,  even  at  church  or  in 
prayer  time,  she  could  not  help  enjoying  it  and  giving 
those  nearest  her  the  benefit  of  it.  She  was  fond  of  mim- 
icry, and  nothing  pleased  her  better  than  to  take  off 
some  amusing  peculiarity  in  others.  She  seemed  to 
consider  every  body  and  every  thing  as  legitimate  objects 
of  ridicule,  and  nothing  of  a  serious  nature  made  any 
impression  upon  her  volatile  disposition.  Like  most  per- 
sons who  are  full  of  levity  and  merriment,  she  had  little 
sympathy  with  sorrow  or  suffering,  and  although  she  was 
very  popular  as  a  companion,  yet  there  was  not  one 
among  us  who  selected  her  as  a  friend.  And  yet  there 
was  something  so  attractive  in  her  mirthfulness,  that  she 
always  drew  a  number  around  her  in  our  play  hours,  and 
wherever  there  was  heard  a  gay  peal  of  laughter  from 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          31 

mingled  voices,  some  sally  of  wit  or  some  happy  stroke 
of  ridicule  from  Matilda  Harwood  was  generally  the  ex- 
citing cause.  I  never  saw  her  sad  or  thoughtful,  and 
when  I  looked  on  her  gay  countenance  and  laughing 
eyes,  I  often  thought  that  the  buoyancy  of  her  spirits  was 
a  talisman  which  would  hear  her  unscathed  through  the 
trials  and  vicissitudes  of  life. 


Among  the  group  of  schoolmates  that  still  remain  un- 
described  there  was  but  one  more  who  has  left  a  vivid 
impression  on  my  memory.  Modest  and  retiring  in  her 
manners,  and  possessing  that  peculiar  refinement  which 
can  only  proceed  from  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  Sarah 
Sherman,  in  intellect  and  character  was  superior  to  most 
of  the  pupils  at  Oakwood.  Though  entitled  to  the  kind- 
ness and  respect  of  all  her  associates,  yet  she  was  the 
one  who  had  most  frequent  occasion  to  bear  the  sneers 
and  contumely  of  the  haughty  and  the  wealthy.  Sarah 
Sherman  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  a  worthy  carpen- 
ter, whose  honesty  and  integrity  gained  him  the  confi- 
dence and  respect  of  many  who  thought  themselves  su- 
perior to  him  in  station.  He  requested  Mrs.  Norville  to 
receive  his  daughter  as  a  pupil,  not  for  the  sake  of  forcing 
her  into  a  higher  standing  in  society  than  her  parents  had 
occupied,  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barton  had  done,  but  solely 
with  the  desire  of  giving  his  child  an  opportunity  of  im- 
proving those  talents  with  which  she  was  richly  gifted, 
and  to  gratify  her  ardent  thirst  for  knowledge  by  more 
extensive  means  of  acquiring  it.  He  would  have  been 
contented  for  her  to  have  been  brought  up  as  her  sisters 
had  been,  but  he  found  that  her  natural  capacity  and 
tastes  required  something  more  than  a  mere  elementary 
education.  She  had  been  studious  from  early  childhood 
and  in  the  little  library  with  which  her  kind  father  had 
provided  her,  she  enjoyed  a  communion  and  companion- 


32          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

ship  that  she  found  not  in  those  around  her.  But  she 
felt  the  want  of  direction  and  instruction  and  timidly  re- 
quested her  father  to  apply  to  Mrs.  Norville  for  her  ad- 
mission into  the  Oakwood  School. 

Mr.  Sherman  though  deficient  in  mere  school  educa- 
tion, was  a  man  of  strong,  practical  intelligence,  and 
possessed  a  mind  which  had  been  improved  by  observa- 
tion and  reflection.  He  had  formed  just  views  of  his 
condition  in  society,  and  was  as  independent  in  feeling 
and  action  as  he  was  firm  and  upright  in  his  principles. 
He  pursued  his  course  unmoved  by  the  arrogance  of 
wealth  or  the  unwarranted  assumptions  of  the  powerful. 
Believing  that  "  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal,"  he 
was  enabled  to  fix  a  just  appraisement  on  the  outward 
circumstances  that  surrounded  them,  and  experienced  no 
diminution  of  self  respect  in  the  presence  of  those  who 
considered  themselves  above  him,  while  at  the  same 
time,  he  had  no  wish  to  intrude  himself  upon  them,  or  to 
violate  the  arbitrary  enactments  of  society.  The  injus- 
tice of  worldly  prejudices,  had  no  power  to  wound  his  own 
feelings,  yet  he  knew  his  darling  Sarah  was  ignorant  of 
them,  and  he  dreaded  their  effects  upon  her  sensitive 
mind.  In  the  sheltered  seclusion  of  home,  no  opportu- 
nity was  found  to  learn  the  world  and  its  ways,  and  she 
had  yet  to  be  taught  the  painful  truth,  that  among  her 
future  associates  there  were  many  who  would  look  down 
upon  her  .with  contempt,  because  her  father  happened  to 
be  a  mechanic.  Mr.  Sherman  was  well  aware  of  this, 
and  told  her  what  she  must  expect.  He  endeavored  to 
fortify  her  mind,  by  teaching  her  to  form  a  proper  esti- 
mate of  the  various  conditions  of  society,  so  as  to  save 
her  keen  sensibilities  from  the  pain  that  he  foresaw 
would  be  inflicted  by  the  cold,  the  proud  and  the  heart- 
less. 

These  efforts  of  Mr.  Sherman  were  ably  seconded  by 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.          33 

the  kind  and  judicious  Mrs.  Norville,  and  though  the 
tear  of  wounded  feeling  frequently  trembled  in  the  eye  of 
the  gentle,  unobtrusive  girl,  yet  she  gradually  learned  to 
rise  above  it,  and  at  length  she  bore  the  slights  and 
sneers  of  her  companions  with  the  undisturbed  calmness 
of  true  wisdom.  After  having  realized  the  truth  of  her 
father's  teachings  from  his  own  knowledge  of  the  world, 
she  became  so  fearful  of  trespassing  npon  the  imaginary 
rights  of  the  aristocratic,  that  it  was  difficult  to  draw  her 
into  the  least  degree  of  intimacy.  She  became  doubly 
reserved  and  still  fonder  of  the  solitary  pursuits  that 
formed  the  happiness  of  her  childhood.  In  our  play 
hours,  instead  of  joiningin  the  sports  of  her  schoolmates, 
she  would  sometimes  take  a  book  to  some  shady  retreat, 
and  in  silent  communion  with  the  bright  imaginings  of  ge- 
nius would  soon  forget  the  world  without,  or  at  others, 
would  pursue  her  lonely  walk,  over  the  hills  and  among  the 
woods,  enjoying  the  calm  delight  inspired  by  the  beautiful 
scenes  around  her,  and  finding  in  these  and  her  own  high 
thoughts  a  source  of  happiness  unknown  to  those  who 
depend  on  others  for  amusement.  Though  she  shrunk 
from  social  intercourse  with  us  in  the  hours  of  our  joy- 
ousness,  yet  when  we  met  with  any  trouble  or  difficulty, 
she  was  the  first  to  come  forward  to  do  what  she  could. 
I  loved  and  respected  her  and  would  gladly  have  claimed 
her  as  a  friend  and  intimate  companion,  but  I  never  could 
induce  her  to  throw  aside  the  reserve  in  which  she  was 
infolded.  In  all  our  classes,  in  the  various  studies  we 
pursued,  Sarah  Sherman  bore  the  palm  of  superiority 
for  industrious  application  and  rapid  acquirement,  yet  so 
meekly  and  unassumingly  did  she  wear  her  honors,  that 
the  most  envious  never  wished  to  deprive  her  of  the 
merited  distinction.  She  was  a  favorite  with  all  our 
teachers,  and  indeed  this  could  not  be  wondered  at,  for  it 
must  have  been  a  pleasure  instead  of  a  task  to  guide  an 


34          SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES. 

intellect  like  hers.  Her  desire  for  knowledge  seemed  to 
increase  with  every  additional  means  of  gratifying  it,  and 
not  content  with  being  always  prepared  in  her  allotted 
tasks,  she  would  frequently  employ  her  hours  of  leisure 
by  reading  larger  works  on  the  different  subjects  of  our 
studies. 

Sometimes  with  the  bigotry  of  narrow  prejudice,  the 
thought  would  arise  that  it  was  a  pity  that  this  refined, 
intellectual  girl  should  be  the  daughter  of  a  mechanic. 
And  I  could  not  help  fancying  that  she  could  not  be  hap- 
py to  descend  again  into  the  humble  circle  that  gathered 
around  her  father's  hearth.  How  can  she,  I  would  ask 
myself,  be  contented  to  associate  with  those  in  her  own 
sphere  of  life.  I  often  thought  her  father  would  have 
'acted  more  wisely  if  he  had  restrained  her  thirst  for  in- 
tellectual acquirements  by  training  her  to  fill  some  subor- 
dinate post  of  usefulness,  instead  of  elevating  her  above 
the  companionship  of  her  family  and  friends  by  an  edu- 
cation suited  only  for  the  daughters  of  the  wealthy  and 
the  great.  But  subsequent  experience  has  taught  me  the 
fallacy  of  such  reasoning — for  if  this  objection  can  be  made 
to  apply  to  the  daughter  of  a  carpenter,  it  can  be  urged  with 
equal  force  against  the  children  of  our  richest  merchants. 
For  who  that  has  mingled  much  in  fashionable  society 
has  not  found  as  great  a  want  of  true  refinement  and  as 
much  innate  vulgarity  and  unlettered  ignorance,  but  illy 
concealed  by  conventional  forms,  in  the  families  of  many 
men  of  fortune  as  could  be  met  with  in  the  household  of 
the  most  illiterate  mechanic.  And  a  member  of  one  of 
these  wealthy  families  would  be  as  far  removed,  by  intel- 
lectual cultivation,  from  companionship  or  congeniality 
with  her  parents  and  sisters  as  the  daughter  of  the  me- 
chanic could  be  from  hers.  Such  being  thetfact  in  both 
cases,  why  should  we  be  so  ready  to  allow  the  most  ex- 
tensive privileges  of  education  in  one  instance,  and  yet 
question  its  wisdom  or  propriety  in  the  other  ? 


SKETCHES  OF  MY  SCHOOLMATES.  35 

And  it  is  also  the  opinion  of  those  who  have  had  op- 
portunities of  forming  an  enlightened  judgment  upon 
both  classes,  that  there  are  men  of  sounder  intelligence 
and  more  thorough  information  to  be  found  among  those 
who  are  styled  workingmen,  than  can  be  met  with  among 
those  who  have  accumulated  princely  fortunes  by  their 
merchandise,  and  whose  ships  touch  every  port  of  the 
commercial  world.  And  the  reason  of  this  is  obvious  ; 
for  the  man  who  has  been  devoted  from  his  early  years, 
to  the  love  of  gain  and  to  the  passion  for  wild  specula- 
tion, has  had  fewer  opportunities  for  mental  improvement 
than  he  who  has  handled  the  tools  of  the  artisan,  for  the 
former  has  had  every  faculty  of  his  mind  concentrated 
upon  his  schemes  for  amassing  wealth,  while  the  latter 
follows  an  occupation  that  requires  only  the  labor  of  his 
hands,  leaving  his  thoughts  free  to  gather  wisdom  and 
intellligence  from  observation,  experience  and  reflection, 
and  silently  to  work  their  way  in  elevating  him  as  a 
thinking,  reasoning  being. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BREAKING  UP  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 

Too  swiftly  fled !  the  rosy  hours  of  youth, 

Shall  yield  their  fairy  charms  to  mournful  truth, 

E'en  now,  love's  anxious,  fond,  prophetic  fear, 

Sees  the  dark  train  of  human  ills  appear ; 

Views  various  fortune  for  each  lovely  child, 

Grief  for  the  joyous,  anguish  for  the  mild  ; 

And  dreads  each  suffering  those  dear  breasts  may  know, 

In  their  long  passage  through  a  world  of  woe. 

CHARLOTTE  SMITH. 

MRS.  Norville,  from  the  continuance  of  a  feeble  state  of 
health,  felt  herself  unable  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  her 
school,  and  at  last  came  to  the  determination  of  finally 
relinquishing  it,  at  the  ensuing  August  vacation.  She 
had  watched  over  us  and  guided  us  for  many  years  with 
the  anxious  tenderness  of  a  mother's  love,  and  most  of  us 
had  nearly  reached  that  period  of  life,  when  we  would  be 
expected  to  enter  upon  the  sphere  of  womanhood.  The 
breaking  up  of  the  Oakwood  school  was  to  us  a  painful 
intelligence,  and  the  idea  of  a  separation  from  our  beloved 
instructress,  cast  a  shade  of  sadness  over  all  the  pupils. 

A  day  or  two  previous  to  the  time  fixed  on  for  our  re- 
turn to  our  respective  homes,  Mrs.  Norville  told  us  to  put 
away  our  books  and  take  a  farewell  ramble  to  our  favor- 
ite seat  under  the  old  elm  tree.  Seeing  the  sorrow  ex- 
pressed in  the  countenances  of  her  scholars,  she  playfully 
said,  you  know  you  have  styled  it  my  throne,  and  I  now 
wish  to  make  an  abdication  in  due  form,  so  come,  my  be- 
loved subjects,  and  see  me  follow  the  example  of  Charles 
the  Fifth.  And  I  fear  I  shall  find  my  solitary  fireside  as 
gloomy,  without  the  sight  of  your  happy  faces,  as  he  must 


BREAKING   UP    OF    THE    SCHOOL.  37 

have  found  the  naked  walls  of  his  lonely  cells  in  the 
monastery  of  St.  Justus,  after  he  had  given  up  the  splen- 
dors of  royalty,  his  worshiping  crowd  of  courtiers,  and  the 
prosecution  of  his  ambitious  schemes  of  aggrandizement. 
So  like  him,  I  bid  '  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness,' 
but  in  descending  from  my  elevation,  I  have  the  happi- 
ness of  knowing  that  there  is  not  one  of  my  little  band 
that  will  not  still  claim  me  as  a  friend,  though  they  will 
have  to  relinquish  me  as  a  governess."  I  shall  never 
forget  that  day  !  It  was  a  calm,  beautiful  afternoon  in  the 
latter  end  of  July.  A  soft  western  breeze  had  freshened 
the  air  after  the  noon-tide  heat,  and  stirred  the  branches 
of  the  trees  above  us,  with  a  gentle  rushing  sound,  like 
the  fall  of  waters.  The  green  hills,  and  the  distant 
forests  were  tinged  with  the  mellowed  radiance  of  the 
setting  sun,  while  the  lovely  vallies  were  deepening  into 
the  lengthened  shadows  of  evening.  As  we  traced  the 
winding  path,  Mrs.  Norville  pointed  out  the  varied  beau- 
ties that  lay  around  us,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  our 
admiration  of  the  beautiful  and  sublime  scenes  of  nature 
would  ever  be  associated  with  high  and  holy  thoughts  of 
Him  who  had  thus  richly  endeared  our  earthly  home. 
When  Mrs.  Norville  gained  the  rustic  seat,  we  formed 
a  group  around  her,  some  sitting  on  the  grassy  bank,  and 
others  leaning  against  the  mossy  trunks  of  the  aged  trees 
that  encircled  this  favorite  spot.  The  thought  that  it  was 
the  last  time  we  should  assemble  here  around  our  dear 
teacher,  gave  rise  to  a  general  expression  of  sadness.  As 
Mrs.  Norville  looked  on  us,  her  eyes  filled ;  and  her 
voice  trembled  with  emotion  as  she  commenced  her  fare- 
well address.  "  We  have  spent  many  happy  hours,  in 
this  sweet  spot"  said  she,  "  and  I  trust  that  the  truths  I 
have  endeavored  to  impress  on  your  youthful  minds,  may 
remain  with  you,  and  guide  you  safely  through  the  trying 
scenes  of  the  world  upon  which  you  are  soon  to  enter.  It 
4 


38  BREAKING   UP   OF    THE    SCHOOL. 

is  a  momentous  period,  and  upon  your  conduct  during  the 
few  first  years  will  depend  your  character  for  life,  and 
the  happiness  or  misery  of  your  earthly  course,  and  it 
may  be,  of  your  future  state.  As  yet,  '  ye  know  not 
what  spirits  ye  are  of.'  Sheltered  during  infancy  within 
the  sanctuary  of  home,  and  passing  your  girlhood  beneath 
the  eye  and  under  protecting  regulations  of  your  teacher, 
yoa  have  met  with  nothing  to  test  your  weakness  or 
your  strength.  The  watchfulness  that  hitherto  took  heed 
to  your  footsteps,  will  soon  be  withdrawn,  and  you  will 
be  trusted  to  go  alone.  In  other  nations,  it  is  usual  to 
keep  up  a  systematic  course  of  -parental  restriction  over 
young  females,  until  they  are  given  up  to  the  guardian- 
ship of  husbands,  but  in  ours  it  is  considered  unnecessary 
after  they  have  attained  to  womanhood.  You  will  be 
supposed  to  have  arrived  at  years  of  discretion,  and  the 
confidence  thus  placed  in  your  principles,  renders  your 
responsibility  tenfold  greater.  But  you  are  not  left 
guideless  or  unprotected,  for  He  who  called  you  into 
being  hath  given  you  a  conscience  and  a  Bible,  which 
can  bear  you  safely  through  every  danger,  and  secure 
you  an  entrance  to  the  kingdom  of  Heaven, — if  you  earn- 
estly pray  unto  God  to  make  these  become  a  lamp  unto 
your  feet,  and  a  light  unto  your  path.  When  your  pa- 
rents and  guardians  have  ceased  to  exert  their  govern- 
ment over  you,  it  is  then  you  are  called  on  to  exercise  a 
government  over  yourselves.  And  to  do  this,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  study  your  character  and  capacities,  your  faults 
and  your  besetting  sins,  that  you  may  avoid  temptation, 
and  learn  how  to  rule  your  own  spirits  aright.  In  your 
progress  towards  self-knowledge  you  will  be  more  and 
more  convinced  that  you  have  continual  need  of  Divine 
assistance, — that  you  can  place  no  reliance  on  your  own 
strength.  The  wisest  plans,  and  the  firmest  resolutions 
will  vanish  away  like  the  morning  cloud  and  the  early 


BREAKING   TIP    OF    THE    SCHOOL.  39 

dew,  if  the  aid  of  the  Holy  Spirit  be  not  fervently  and 
prayerfully  sought.  Self  dependence,  and  self  conceit 
are  ever  the  offspring  of  weakness  and  ignorance.  Then 
in  all  your  trials,  my  children,  whether  of  prosperity  or 
adversity,  remember  the  only  true  source  of  wisdom  and 
strength,  and  cling  to  it  as  your  only  safety  in  the  hour 
of  temptation. 

"  To  you,  my  dear  girls,  the  world  is  a  fairy  spot,  and 
each  one  of  you  has  probably  pictured  in  the  mists  of  the 
distant  future  an  illusive  mirage,  whose  bright  and  beau- 
tiful forms  take  the  hues  of  your  own  tastes  and  fancies. 
But  you  will  find  the  reality  of  these  visions  is  but  a 
scene  of  earth,  that  will  lose  all  its  charms  when  the  fal- 
lacious medium  of  imagination  has  passed,  and  given 
place  to  the  clear  view  of  truth.  Like  the  traveler  in  the 
desert,  your  hastening  footsteps  will  bring  you  to  an  arid 
waste,  where  you  expected  to  meet  refreshing  waters  and 
cooling  shades.  It  is  not  with  the  intention  to  give  you 
gloomy  views  of  life,  my  children,  that  I  thus  forewarn 
you ;  it  is  to  save  you  from  the  bitterness  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  to  lower  your  expectations  of  earthly  bliss. 
'  Man  is  born  to  trouble,'  and  all  of  you  will  one  day 
acknowledge  this  scripture  truth.  The  loss  of  friends  by 
death  or  separation,  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  the  alter- 
nation of  joy  and  sorrow,  and  even  heavier  trials  than 
these,  you  may  experience,  and  some  among  these  will 
certainly  fall  to  your  lot ;  then  is  it  not  wise  to  be  pre- 
pared for  their  coming  ?  They  who  expect  no  more  from 
earth,  than  it  can  bestow,  are  those  that  find  most  happi- 
ness. There  are  some  sources  of  enjoyment  in  the  path 
of  every  one.  The  day  hath  its  gleams  of  sunshine,  the 
night  has  its  twinkling  stars  and  silvery  moon.  The 
world  is  never  wholly  shrouded  in  gloom.  No  !  thanks 
be  to  our  Heavenly  Father,  He  hath  scattered  as  many 
delights  around  our  earthly  dwellings,  as  are  safe  for  us 


40  BREAKING   UP   OF   THE    SCHOOL. 

to  enjoy.  He  gives  us  much  to  cheer  our  hearts,  and 
sends  us  afflictions  from  time  to  time  to  wean  us  from 
this  passing  earth, — and  to  lead  us  to  the  only  immutable 
and  unalloyed  source  of  happiness. 

"  To  this  wise,  and  kind,  and  gracious  Father,  I  com- 
mend you  all,  my  dear  children, — and  will  pray  that  you 
may  '  Remember  your  Creator  in  the  days  of  your  youth,' 
when  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh, 
when  ye  shall  say  we  have  no  pleasure  in  them." 

The  day  on  which  my  schoolmates  were  to  leave 
Oakwood  at  length  arrived.  Different  vehicles  were  seen, 
at  intervals,  winding  through  the  trees,  and  drawing  up  be- 
fore the  porch,  where  we  were  all  assembled;  warm  greet- 
ings between  the  pupils  and  their  parents  or  friends  who 
had  come  to  escort  them ;  a  parting  embrace  with  Mrs. 
Norville,  and  affectionate  farewells  to  each  other  followed 
in  rapid  succession,  and  thus  one  after  another,  they  were 
borne  away  to  their  separate  homes,  and  many  then 
parted  never  to  meet  again  ! 

While  we  were  under  the  charge  of  our  instructress, 
we  appeared  as  a  band  of  sisters ;  Mrs.  Norville  having 
strictly  enjoined  the  utmost  simplicity  and  uniformity  in 
our  dress,  there  were  no  external  indications  by  which 
the  daughter  of  the  rich  man  could  be  distinguished  from 
that  of  one  in  restricted  circumstances.  But  how  soon 
were  worldly  distinctions  made  apparent !  The  gay 
equipages,  with  their  proud  steeds,  liveried  coachman 
and  attendants,  that  came  dashing  up  to  the  door,  pre- 
sented not  a  more  striking  contrast  to  the  humble  one 
horse  chaise,  than  we  now  felt  there  existed  between  the 
outward  condition  of  those  who  were  about  to  take  their 
places  within  them.  The  gratified  pride  expressed  in  the 
countenances  of  some,  and  the  mortified  feelings  of  false 
shame  that  crimsoned  the  cheeks  of  others,  showed  that 
it  was  human  passions,  as  well  as  different  circumstances 


BREAKING  UP  OF  THE  SCHOOL.          41 

that  would  keep  them  at  a  distance  from  each  other. 
Mrs.  Norville  sighed  deeply  at  this  exhibition  of  human 
frailty,  and  her  benevolent  heart  was  pained  to  see  how 
ineffectual  were  all  her  exertions  where  the  spirit  of 
Christian  humility  was  wanting. 

The  haughty  purse-proud  parents  of  the  beautiful 
Amelia  Dorrington,  arrived  at  Oakwood  in  an  equipage 
that  would  have  suited  an  English  noble.  The  gay  car- 
riage was  emblazoned  with  the  armorial  bearings  of 
some  titled  European  personage  of  the  same  name,  but 
not  of  the  same  family, — and  the  rich  caparison  of  the 
four  prancing  steeds  flashed  in  the  sunlight,  as  they  im- 
patiently pawed  the  ground,  as  if  unwilling  even  to  wait 
their  master's  pleasure.  Amanda  Burton  was  full  of  rap- 
turous admiration,  and  though  secretly  disliking  the 
petted  Amelia,  she  yet  officiously  assisted  her  prepara- 
tions for  departure,  and  bade  her  farewell,  as  if  she  were 
her  dearest  and  most  intimate  companion.  As  soon  as 
this  vision  of  fashionable  life  had  vanished  from  our 
sight,  Mr.  Burton's  one  horse  carriage  was  seen  entering 
the  gate.  Poor  Amanda !  how  her  countenance  fell, — 
it  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  her  imaginary  conse- 
quence forsake  her. 

The  plain  old  fashioned  carriage  of  Mr.  Etherington, 
with  its  grey-headed  coachman  next  came  in  view,  and 
the  aristocratic  Margaret  looked  on  the  silver  crest  that 
unostentatiously  graced  the  pannels,  and  recalled  with 
contempt  the  assumed  heraldic  blazonings  of  the  perverse 
Dorrington's.  The  only  being  who  seemed  entirely  free 
from  the  petty  feelings  exhibited  on  this  occasion,  was  the 
gentle  Sarah  Sherman,  and  when  her  plain  and  worthy 
father  alighted  from  his  humble  vehicle,  she  thought  only 
of  him,  and  ran  down  the  steps  to  meet  him  with  a 
warmth  of  affection,  which  owing  to  her  reserve,  I  never 
knew  she  possessed.  Mrs.  Norville  held  her  hand  as 
4* 


42  BREAKING   UP    OF   THE    SCHOOL. 

* 

she  came  to  take  leave  of  her,  and  said  to  Mr.  Sherman, 
"  I  now  return  to  you  one  of  my  best  pupils ;  and  the 
pleasure  I  have  received  in  instructing  your  estimable 
daughter,  makes  me  feel  indebted  to  you,  for  having 
placed  her  under  my  charge.  She  is  a  girl  after  my  own 
heart,  and  she  will  prove  a  treasure  to  you,  of  whose 
value  you  will  daily  become  more  sensible.  She  has 
been  assiduous  and  successful  in  her  studies,  and  ranks 
among  the  first  in  intellectual  advancement ;  but  what  is 
far  better  than  all,  she  has  become  a  student  of  the  Bible, 
and  has  learned  to  prize  the  wisdom  from  above  as  more 
than  surpassing  that  of  earth." 

The  father's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  his  face  flushed 
with  gratified  feeling  as  he  replied,  "  Sarah  was  always 
a  good  child,  and  I  am  thankful  that  she  is  still  my  own 
little  girl.  Some  persons  told  me,  I  was  doing  wrong  in 
giving  her  a  better  education  than  I  or  any  of  my  family 
had  received, — that  it  would  make  her  ashamed  of  her 
parents  and  sisters,  but  I  would  not  believe  them,  and  I 
knew  she  would  always  be  the  same  as  I  find  her  now, 
my  own  precious,  affectionate  daughter." 

The  happy  father  and  daughter  departed,  and  we  were 
left  alone.  A  few  hours  before,  my  schoolmates  were 
assembled  together,  the  inmates  of  one  dwelling,  under 
the  care  of  one  common  friend  and  preceptress,  and  now 
all  had  passed  away;  we  were  scattered  in  diverging 
paths,  never  to  meet  again  as  equals.  The  invidious  dis- 
tinctions of  the  world  had  come  in  between  us, — and 
those  who  had  sat  upon  the  same  bench,  and  studied  the 
same  lesson  side  by  side,  would  look  coldly  on  each 
other,  without  the  slightest  token  of  acquaintanceship  or 
recognition. 

My  dear  father  was  my  only  parent,  my  mother  hav- 
ing died  before  I  knew  what  it  was  to  lose  her,  and  he 
had  not  yet  returned  from  Europe,  whither  he  had  gone 


BREAKING  UP   OF    THE    SCHOOL.  43 

for  the  recovery  of  his  health.  Having  no  home  to  be 
welcomed  to,  as  my  schoolmates  had,  I  requested  Mrs. 
Norville  to  permit  me  to  remain  with  her  until  his  arri- 
val. This  arrangement  was  grateful  to  me,  for  I  knew 
that  my  dear  preceptress  needed  some  female  companion 
in  her  feeble  state  of  health.  We  both  hoped  that  the 
tranquil  life  she  would  now  be  enabled  to  pass,  by  hav- 
ing relinquished  the  care  of  her  pupils,  would  be  attended 
by  beneficial  effects,  and  she  often  said,  that  as  soon  as 
her  strength  was  restored,  she  would  take  the  entire 
charge  of  her  two  boys,  and  get  a  private  tutor  to  give 
them  daily  lessons.  It  was  the  greatest  trial  she  experi- 
enced in  her  loss  of  fortune,  that  she  was  obliged  to  re- 
linquish the  education  of  her  sons.  Had  she  been  able 
to  attend  to  them,  she  would  have  kept  them  with  her, 
but  finding  the  duties  of  her  school  occupied  her  so  en- 
tirely, she  placed  them  at  a  grammar  school,  kept  by  a 
clergyman,  who  had  been  a  warm  personal  friend  of  her 
husband. 

It  made  me  sad  to  enter  the  deserted  school-room,  after 
the  departure  of  my  companions,  and  often  as  Mrs.  Nor- 
ville and  I  sat  down  to  our  solitary  meals,  or  rambled 
along  our  favorite  paths,  we  frequently  spoke  of  those 
who  had  left  us.  Their  different  characters,  their  prob- 
able destinies,  and  our  hopes  and  fears  for  each  gave 
rise  to  many  interesting  conversations.  "  It  may  be  sel- 
fish she  would  say,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  could  have  wished 
to  have  them  always  with  me.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
the  evils  to  which  those  will  be  exposed,  who  are  about 
to  enter  into  the  fashionable  world.  I  have  seen  so  many 
sweet  ingenuous  girls  so  soon  transformed  by  flattery  and 
admiration,  that  I  dread  their  influence.  Unless  the 
mind  and  heart  be  strengthened  by  religious  principle, 
there  are  few  who  can  come  unscathed  from  the  trial. 
Can  we  wonder  there  is  so  little  elevation  of  character  or 


44  BREAKING   UP    OF   THE    SCHOOL. 

intellect  among  females,  when  they  find  that  a  pretty 
face,  or  a  fashionable  air,  is  more  attractive  than  moral 
beauty,  or  a  cultivated  mind  ?  The  desire  to  please  is 
natural  to  all,  and  when  a  girl  finds  that  to  increase  her 
personal  attractions,  to  dress  fashionably,  and  to  acquire 
popular  manners  are  the  quickest  and  surest  passports  to 
favor,  it  is  not  surprising  that  she  should  forget  she  has  a 
mind  to  improve  and  duties  to  perform.  And  they  who 
complain  of  the  vanity  and  folly  of  our  sex  and  censure 
their  fondness  for  trifling  pursuits,  would  do  well  to  re- 
flect if  they  as  members  of  society  have  not  done  their 
part  towards  making  them  what  they  are.  I  have  known 
some  females,  who  when  at  school  were  remarked  for 
their  intelligence,  become  mere  triflers  in  society,  and 
indeed,  with  the  generality  of  girls,  the  period  of  their 
leaving  school  is  the  time  for  casting  aside  every  thing 
like  serious  occupation,  or  mental  cultivation.  In  this 
error  the  blame  rests  not  with  them  alone,  but  upon  the 
society  into  wrhich  they  are  thrown.  It  is  not  the  male 
sex  only  that  fosters  these  evils  by  their  delusive  flatte- 
ries, for  I  have  heard  mothers,  even  those  who  professed 
to  have  renounced  the  world  and  its  follies,  expressing 
regret  that  their  daughters  had  no  fondness  for  company, 
and  that  they  preferred  their  own  fire-side.s,  instead  of  en- 
deavoring to  attract  notice  in  the  circles  of  fashion. 
And  strange  it  is,  yet  true,  that  if  a  girl  of  retiring  man- 
ners and  superior  mind,  be  induced  by  the  solicitation  of 
friends  to  enter  a  fashionable  assembly,  she  will  be  left 
unnoticed,  while  the  coquette  and  the  giddy  trifler  gather 
around  them,  not  only  those  who  are  equally  vain  and 
trifling  with  themselves,  but  they  will  often  monopolize 
the  attention  of  men  of  talent  and  acquirements.  In 
society  as  it  is  at  present  constituted,  the  external  attrac- 
tions of  person,  manners  or  fortune,  are  alone  valued, 
but  the  intrinsic  treasures  of  mind,  heart  and  character 


BREAKING   UP   OF    THE    SCHOOL.  45 

are  unfelt,  and  unappreciated.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
girls  who  are  desirous  of  attaining  a  high  standard  of 
moral  and  intellectual  excellence,  should  first  learn  to  be 
happiest  at  home,  and  to  be  independent  of  others  for  en- 
joyment. They  will  meet  with  little  sympathy  or  en- 
couragement from  their  general  acquaintance  of  either 
sex ;  but  they  must  be  content  with  the  approval  of  God, 
and  of  their  own  hearts,  and  with  the  esteem  and  friend- 
ship of  the  few.  The  companion  of  an  evening,  or  the 
casual  visiter  will  pass  them  by,  but  the  inmates  of  their 
household,  and  the  friends  of  a  life-time  will  cherish 
them  among  their  heart's  dearest  treasures."  To  have 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  intimate  communion  with  a  wo- 
man like  Mrs.  Norville,  has  been  throughout  my  life,  a 
source  of  grateful  feeling.  It  is  to  the  blessing  of  Provi- 
dence and  her  endeavors  that  I  owe  all  the  tranquillity 
and  contentment  I  have  found  in  my  desolate  orphanage. 
For  she  taught  me  to  find  society  in  solitude,  and  happi- 
ness in  an  isolated  situation.  My  dear  father  never 
reached  his  native  land.  He  died  in  Bordeaux,  a  day  or 
two  previous  to  his  intended  embarkation — and  I  was 
left  alone,  the  last  of  my  kindred,  without  the  prospect  of 
a  home.  The  fortune  that  reverted  to  me  as  the  sole 
heir  of  the  family  estates,  gave  me  no  pleasure,  and  was 
a  miserable  exchange  for  the  glad  anticipations  of  a 
father's  society  at  a  father's  hearth.  I  entreated  Mrs. 
Norville  to  let  me  be  unto  her  as  a  daughter,  and  to  con- 
sider her  house  as  my  permanent  home.  She  folded  me 
in  her  arms,  and  said  she  would  endeavor  to  supply  a 
parent's  place — and  begged  me  to  call  her  mother.  How 
willingly  did  I  avail  myself  of  this  precious  privilege ;  it 
seemed  as  though  the  load  that  pressed  on  my  heart, 
when  I  thought  of  my  strange,  sad  loneliness,  was  taken 
from  me,  and  that  I  now  had  one  kindred  breast  to  lean 
upon.  She  was  indeed  a  mother  to  me.  With  all  the 


46  BREAKING  UP  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 

delicacy  and  tenderness  of  true  affection,  she  endeavored 
to  rouse  my  mind  from  its  brooding  melancholy,  by 
interesting  me  in  some  active  pursuit  or  some  pleasing 
mental  occupation.  Every  day  had  its  allotted  walk  or 
ride,  to  view  the  beautiful  scenes  with  which  the  neigh- 
borhood abounded,  and  every  evening  was  spent  in 
sketching  some  picturesque  spot  that  we  had  visited,  or 
in  alternately  reading  aloud  some  favorite  author. 

When  time  and  the  affectionate  attentions  of  my 
adopted  mother  had  brought  my  spirits  into  comparative 
calmness,  there  were  certain  fearful  indications  that  I 
should  have  to  bear  another  loss — that  I  should  ere  long 
be  alone, — without  one  being  in  the  crowded  world 
whom  I  could  look  up  to,  for  sympathy  or  counsel. — 
Increasing  feebleness  and  a  wasting  cough  were  symp- 
toms on  which  I  could  not  bear  to  dwell.  While  sel- 
fishly absorbed  in  my  own  affliction,  the  change  in  my 
dear  Mrs.  Norville  was  unnoticed,  but  now  I  watched 
every  variation  with  intense  anxiety,  and  alternate  hopes 
and  fears.  Gentle  exercise  in  the  open  air  had  been 
recommended  to  her,  and  sweet,  though  very  sad  were 
the  rides  and  the  rambles  we  took  together.  She  had 
tenderly  ministered  unto  my  stricken  heart,  and  now,  I 
became  her  constant  nurse  and  attendant,  in  the  hour  of 
her  physical  disease.  Leaning  upon  my  arm  we  would 
saunter  through  the  beautiful  grounds  of  Oakwood,  and 
as  the  fresh  breeze  played  around  her  brow,  she  would 
feel  a  renovated  strength,  which,  alas !  was  but  tempo- 
rary. She  enjoyed  the  lovely  scenes  around  her  with 
the  eye  of  a  poet,  and  the  heart  of  a  Christian.  As  she 
noticed  the  tokens  of  departing  summer,  in  the  withered, 
decaying  flowers,  and  the  first  falling  leaves,  she  would 
advert  to  her  own  expected  dissolution,  and  trace  the  im- 
pressive analogy  between  the  life  of  man  and  the  objects 
surrounding  him.  And  once  she  said  to  me  "  Yes,  I 


BREAKING  UP  OF  THE  SCHOOL.  47 

now  feel  the  full  force  of  these  remarks  of  a  late  author- 
ess. '  In  their  decay  and  changes  we  see  a  resemblance 
to  our  own,  and  it  is  this  that  makes  them  so  attractive.' 
And  with  her  too  I  can  say,  '  The  heaven's  declare  the 
glory  of  God.'  No  curse  has  marred  its  order  or  its 
beauty.  All  is  still  as  He  created  it — a  visible  manifest- 
ation of  the  power,  the  wisdom,  and  beauty  of  the  Di- 
vine Mind.  When  pursuing  the  same  thoughts  in  her 
own  expressive  language,  she  added  "  when  we  look  on 
earth,  every  thing  thai  we  see  reminds  us  of  man  :  the 
opening  bud,  and  the  scattered  petals,  the  tender  foliage 
of  Spring,  the  sear  and  yellow  leaves  of  Autumn,  sun- 
shine and  shadow,  ruggedness  and  beauty,  barren  wastes 
and  fertile  fields  succeed  to  each  other,  or  mingle  to- 
gether. And  from  his  own  handiwork  man  may  read 
the  same  lesson  on  human  life,  the  towering  edifice 
fresh  from  the  labors  of  its  builders,  and  the  crumbling 
ruin  with  its  broken  columns,  its  fallen  grass-grown 
walls, — populous  cities,  the  sudden  growth  of  a  few 
years,  instinct  with  the  hum  and  bustle  of  vitality,  and 
cities  desolate,  without  an  inhabitant,  and  without  a 
name,  whose  dilapidated  temples  are  the  only  traces 
left  of  a  long  buried,  forgotten  race  on  this  earth. 
Vicissitudes  and  decay  are  marked  upon  the  works  of 
God,  and  the  works  of  his  creatures,  but  when  we  look 
above,  all  is  bright  and  unchanging, — one  eternal  Now 
from  the*  first  creation  of  the  universe  to  the  present 
hour.  The  clouds  rising  from  earth  may  obscure  the 
blue  heavens,  but  it  is  still  the  same ;  the  sun  and  the 
stars  roll  on,  immutable  in  their  lustre,  and  even  the 
changes  of  the  silvery  moon  are  not  in  herself,  but  from 
the  varying  shadows  that  our  own  world  casts  on  her 
surface.  The  earth  indeed  is  the  type  of  man,  but  the 
Heavens  are  the  glorious  emblem  of  Him,  who  is  the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever !" 

Mrs.  Norville  waited  for  the  hour  of  death  in  ealm 


48  BREAKING    UP    OF    THE    SCHOOL. 

submission,  and  it  was  only  when  thinking  of  her  dear 
children  that  her  eyes  would  fill,  and  her  tongue  falter 
with  emotion.  They  were  two  interesting  boys,  and 
fondly  attached  to  their  mother ;  and  a  few  weeks  previ- 
ous to  her  death  she  had  them  brought  to  Oakwood  to 
remain  with  her  during  the  time  that  was  spared  her  on 
earth.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  look  on  these  dear 
boys  as  they  waited  on  their  feeble  mother,  and  attended 
to  her  slightest  wish.  There  was  a  hush  upon  their 
boyhood's  spirits,  as  if  they  knew  there  was  some  cause 
that  forbid  their  merriment.  They  would  sometimes 
range  through  the  fields  to  gather  the  tempting  fruit  or 
the  bright  autumnal  flowers,  and  then  glide  softly  to 
their  mother's  room  and  lay  them  beside  her.  And  at 
others,  they  would  sit  at  her  feet  and  read  to  her  some- 
thing that  had  given  them  pleasure,  and  look  up  to  find 
their  reward  in  her  placid  smile.  As  yet  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  the  painful  task  of  telling  them  she  was 
soon  to  die, — and  they  were  still  unconscious  of  their 
approaching  loss.  She  said  to  me,  "  How  can  I  grieve 
their  young  hearts  by  an  anticipation  of  sorrow, — tell  me 
Ellen,  do  you  think  it  would  be  any  alleviation  to  them 
to  have  been  prepared  for  the  event  ?  But  one  thought 
consoles  me — it  is  not  the  nature  of  childhood  to  suffer 
long ;  after  the  first  burst  of  grief  is  over,  their  instinc- 
tive buoyancy  of  feeling  soon  restores  them  to  calmness 
or  cheerfulness.  One  day  when  speaking  of  them,  she 
regretted  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  add  more  to  the 
fund  she  had  invested  for  their  education.  This  was  an 
opportunity  I  had  long  wished  for,  but  delicacy  had  pre- 
vented my  adverting  to  it,  being  aware  of  that  independ- 
ence of  character  which  had  always  induced  her  to  de- 
cline any  aid  from  others.  I  entreated  her  to  entrust 
her  boys  to  me.  "  I  am  perhaps  too  young,"  said  I,  "  for 
such  a  responsibility,  yet  the  trust  would  stimulate  me 
to  fit  myself  for  it.  You  have  been  a  mother  to  me,  then 


BREAKING   UP    OF    THE    SCHOOL.  49 

let  me  be  a  sister  to  them."  She  clasped  my  hand  and 
said,  "  Take  them  Ellen,  they  are  yours !"  Her  heart 
was  too  full  to  utter  more. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  mild  days  of  Indian  summer,  that 
my  beloved  friend  breathed  her  last.  The  genial  air  of 
that  sweet  season  seemed  to  revive  her,  and  she  was 
again  able  to  resume  her  favorite  seat  by  a  window 
overlooking  a  varied  and  beautiful  prospect.  The  dis- 
tant bay  in  the  horizon,  the  village  church  with  its 
surrounding  woods,  and  the  lively  hills  and  vallies  of 
Oakwood  lay  sleeping  in  the  softening  haze  of  autumn. 
The  brilliant  hues  of  the  forest  foliage  that  shone  out  so 
brightly  in  the  clear  frosty  air,  a  few  days  before,  were 
now  mingled  into  that  mellowness  of  coloring  that  an 
artist  loves.  The  outlines  of  distant  objects  had  a  dream- 
like indistinctness,  and  sunshine  and  shadow  were  so 
gently  transfused  into  each  other,  that  the  line  of  separa- 
tion could  scarcely  be  traced.  At  Mrs.  Norville's  re- 
quest, I  raised  the  window,  and  a  soft  breeze  came  in, 
stirring  the  clustered  berries  of  the  leafless  woodbine, 
and  the  feathery  sprays  of  the  jessamine,  that  still  re- 
tained the  greenness  of  their  summer  hours.  There  was 
a  brooding  quiet  upon  the  scene,  as  if  the  season  were 
Nature's  sabbath.  The  only  sounds  that  met  our  ear 
were  the  melancholy  chirp  of  the  field  cricket,  and  the 
occasional  note  of  some  solitary  bird.  Mrs.  Norville  sat 
silently  gazing  on  the  scene  before  her,  as  if  her  spirit 
were  communing  with  Him  who  had  spoken  its  beauty 
into  existence,  and,  at  length,  as  if  giving  unconscious 
utterance  to  her  thoughts  she  said,  "  Yes  !  He  has  called 
me  away  from  this  beautiful  earth,  and  from  my  lovely 
boys,  but  I  leave  them  to  Him,  who  has  graciously 
promised  to  be  a  Father  unto  the  fatherless,  and  in  this 
trust,  I  die  content." 

A  sudden  change  passed  over  her  saint-like  counte- 
nance, and  my  friend,  my  mother  was  no  more. 
5 


50 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ANNAPERCIVAL,  OR  THE  MANIAC  MOTHER. 

Oh  !  why  should  woman  oft  so  blindly  love — 
Wasting  her  dearest  feelings,  till  health,  hope, 
Happiness,  are  but  things  of  which  henceforth 
She'll  only  know  the  name  ?    Her  heart  is  seared  ; 
A  dazzling  light  hath  flashed  athwart  her  life 
And  made  its  after  darkness  terrible  ! 

L.  E.  t. 

HAVING  placed  the  two  dear  boys  entrusted  to  me,  at 
the  school  selected  by  their  departed  mother,  according 
to  her  written  request,  I  parted  from  them  with  regret, 
and  having  obtained  their  promise  to  write  often,  left 
them  to  make  a  long  promised  visit  to  my  friend  Anna 
Percival.  I  had  not  seen  her  since  her  return  from 
Boston,  where  she  and  her  mother  had  spent  some  time 
with  her  paternal  relatives. 

I  found  my  friend  even  more  graceful  and  beautiful 
than  when  I  last  saw  her,  but  still  the  same  ingenuous, 
warm-hearted  and  sensitive  girl  I  had  loved  in  our 
school-days.  The  residence  of  Mrs.  Percival  was  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  a  populous  city,  and  united 
the  facilities  of  social  intercourse  with  its  polished  circles 
to  the  charms  of  rural  scenery. 

Anna  was  fond  of  society,  and  her  rare  personal  attrac- 
tions drew  so  many  around  her,  that  we  were  seldom 
alone.  She  was  equally  a  favorite  with  both  sexes,  and 
Roseville  was  quite  a  Mecca  to  the  devotees  of  fashion- 
able life.  I  regretted  that  she  should  have  been  thrown 
in  circumstances  so  unfavorable  to  the  growth  of  that 
invaluable  instruction  implanted  by  our  dear  Mrs.  Nor- 
ville,  yet  the  world  had  still  left  her  heart  unchilled, 


ANNA  PERCIVAL,  OR  THE  MANIAC  MOTHER.     51 

while  it  captivated  her  fancy  by  its  specious  brilliancy. 
Her  mother  had  once  been  a  belle  and  a  beauty,  and  she 
vainly  supposed  she  had  secured  her  daughter's  happi- 
ness by  introducing  her  into  the  same  scenes  which  had 
formerly  been  so  attractive  to  herself.  Mrs.  Percival's 
natural  vanity  was  fully  gratified  in  the  admiration  ex- 
cited by  her  beautiful  child,  and  by  the  many  offers  of 
marriage  she  received.  But  although  the  hand  of  Anna 
was  often  solicited,  yet  it  was  some  time  before  she  met 
a  suitor  to  whom  she  could  give  her  heart.  She  had  too 
much  intellectual  refinement  to  be  satisfied  with  any  one 
who  was  common-place,  and  the  imaginary  standard  of 
perfection  upon  which  her  fancy  had  often  dwelt,  had 
not  yet  been  realized.  "  I  care  not  for  wealth,  personal 
attractions  or  elevated  standing,"  she  would  often  say, 
"but  the  man  that  I  can  love  must  be  one  that  is  supe- 
rior in  noble  bearing,  and  manly  grace,  one  whose 
talents  and  character  will  command  the  respect  and  ad- 
miration of  all, — and  it  is  only  with  such  an  one,  that  I 
could  be  happy."  I  told  her  that  then  her  love  would  be 
too  like  idolatry  ever  to  be  a  happiness. 

One  of  the  frequent  visitors  at  Roseville  brought  with 
him  a  friend  who  had  just  returned  from  Europe.  His 
reputation  for  talents,  acquirements  and  polished  ele- 
gance had  preceded  him,  and  Anna's  imagination  had 
been  busy  in  picturing  him  as  the  living  prototype  of  her 
fancy's  sketch.  Her  highly  wrought  expectations  met 
no  disappointment,  for  Frederick  Elton  was  one  in  every 
respect  suited  to  fascinate  a  young,  imaginative  female. 
I  never  saw  one  in  whom  there  was  so  much  manly 
beauty, — his  finely  formed  figure,  the  noble  contour  of 
his  Roman  features,  and  the  high  expanded  forehead, 
with  the  rich  masses  of  dark  hair  that  gracefully  curved 
around  it,  were  sufficient  to  justify  the  admiration  ex- 
cited by  his  personal  attractions.  In  addition  to  these, 


52  ANNA   PERCIVAL,   OR   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

his  manners  were  singularly  refined  and  elegant,  and 
his  attentions  to  females  were  characterized  by  all  that 
delicate  courtesy  and  deferential  respect,  so  attractive  to 
a  woman's  heart.  In  conversation,  he  was  fluent  and 
graceful,  and  he  could  pass  from  the  lightest  to  the 
gravest  subjects  without  any  appearance  of  effort.  He 
was  evidently  a  man  of  superior  talents,  and  pre-eminent 
attractions,  yet  he  did  not  suit  my  taste.  There  was  so 
much  exterior  elegance,  so  much  conventional  polish, 
that  you  could  form  no  estimate  of  his  character  or  his 
principles.  In  his  rapturous  admiration  of  the  beautiful 
or  sublime  in  nature  or  art,  and  in  his  eloquent  decla- 
mations on  the  glowing  inspirations  of  genius ;  there  was 
too  much  scientific  enthusiasm,  his  feelings  seemed  to  be 
untouched.  In  all  that  he  said  or  did,  there  was  nothing 
that  revealed  a  heart.  I  saw  that  Anna's  fancy  was 
captivated,  and  I  feared  that  her  affections  would  soon 
follow.  With  the  privilege  of  our  long  established 
friendship,  I  entreated  her  not  to  be  too  precipitate,  but  to 
judge  him  with  the  calmness  of  reason,  and  not  to  per- 
mit her  imagination  to  lead  her  into  unconscious  error. 
Their  attraction  was  mutual,  and  I  soon  found  that  the 
grace  and  beauty  of  my  friend,  had  made  an  evident  im- 
pression on  one  who  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  per- 
sonal loveliness. 

A  few  months  after  their  acquaintance,  Frederick  El- 
ton was  an  accepted  suitor,  and  as  devoted  to  the  lady  of 
his  love  as  the  most  gallant  knight  of  romance  or  chivalry. 
Previous  to  his  engagement  with  Anna,  he  had  promised 
to  meet  a  party  of  his  friends  in  Italy  the  ensuing  winter 
and  he  urged  an  immediate  union,  that  he  might  be  ac- 
companied by  his  expected  bride.  Anna  was  pleased 
with  the  thoughts  of  visiting  the  beautiful  land  he  had 
so  often  described  to  her ;  but  as  he  did  not  propose  to 
take  her  mother,  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  leaving 


ANNA   PERCIVAL,    OR   THE    MANIAC     MOTHER.  53 

her  alone  for  so  long  a  period,  as  his  contemplated  ab- 
sence. At  first,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  oppose  the 
slightest  wish  of  her  lover,  but  when  he  spoke  of  it 
again,  she  said  "  but — my  Mother — how  can  I  leave  her 
alone," — this  was  uttered  with  hesitation,  as  if  she  ex- 
pected he  would  invite  her  mother  to  accompany  them. 
For  a  moment,  he  made  no  reply,  a  slight  shade  of  dis- 
pleasure passed  over  his  countenance,  and  he  at  last  said, 
"  but  recollect,  my  Anna,  your  husband  will  be  with  you, 
and  your  Mother  need  not  be  alone,  for  I  am  sure  that 
your  friend  will  consent  to  remain  with  her  until  our  re- 
turn." Before  I  had  time  to  assent  to  this,  Mrs.  Perci- 
val,  too  much  gratified  with  the  eclat  of  her  daughter's 
bridal  voyage  to  Europe,  to  offer  any  obstacles  to  it; 
urged  Anna  to  consent  to  the  proposed  plan.  The  wed- 
ding was  celebrated  with  all  the  splendor  usual  among 
the  wealthy  on  such  occasions, — but  as  I  gazed  on  the 
brilliant  scene  before  me,  the  dazzling  lights  illuminating 
rich  festoons  of  flowers,  the  moving  figures  in  their  gay 
costumes,  the  bright  faces  of  the  young  and  gay,  I 
thought  of  other  scenes,  that  would  soon  succeed  this 
gorgeous  pageant  in  the  diorama  of  human  life.  I  mused 
upon  the  parting  hour,  the  sudden  breaking  up  of  those 
ties  that  bind  the  heart  to  the  home  of  youth,  and  that 
entrance  upon  untried  duties  and  realities  with  one  who 
is  as  yet  a  stranger,  and  whose  companionship  whether 
it  will  be  for  weal  or  for  woe, — time  only  can  prove. 
When  I  looked  on  the  beautiful  bride,  I  thought  of  her 
when  a  school-girl  at  Oakwood,  and  prayed  that  the 
fears  so  often  expressed  by  our  dear  instructress  would 
never  be  realized,  and  that  she  might  learn  to  moderate 
her  expectations  of  worldly  bliss,  without  experiencing 
the  bitter  fate  of  those  who  sacrifice  the  whole  of  their 
affections  at  the  shrine  of  an  earthly  idol. 

A  few  weeks  afterward  my  friend  and  her  husband 
5* 


64  ANNA   PERCIVAL,    OR   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

were  voyagers  upon  the  wide  lonely  sea,  and  we  were 
also  left  in  comparative  solitude,  for  there  was  but  little 
attraction  for  the  gay  world  at  Roseville,  since  the  de- 
parture of  its  lovely  inmate.    Mrs.  Percival  was  devotedly 
attached  to  her  daughter,  and  it  was  several  weeks  before 
she  was  sufficiently  accustomed  to  her  absence,  to  become 
.  interested  in  any  thing.    For  she  had  laid  up  her  treasure 
upon  earth,  and  the  rich  resources  of  the  Christian  in 
every   affliction,   were   to   her  unknown.     In  order   to 
withdraw   her  mind  from  the    melancholy   into    which 
she  had  fallen,  from  the  separation  from  her  only  child, 
and  the  solitary  life  she  led,  I  often  spoke  to  her  of  Mrs. 
Norville,  and  in  giving  her  the  history  and  character  of 
my  beloved  preceptress,  I  endeavored  to  impress  her  with 
a  consciousness  of  the  support  to  be  derived  from  religion 
under  every  trial.     Mrs.  Percival  had  never  enjoyed  the 
blessing  of  Christian  parents,  and  her  notions  of  piety 
extended   no    farther   than   a   periodical   attendance    at 
.Church,  and  a  weekly  reading  of  some  portion  of  Scrip- 
ture on  Sabbath  afternoons.     But  the  Bible  was  to  her  a 
.sealed  book,  for  its  glorious  truths  were  still  unrevealed. 
,1  endeavored  to  interest  her  mind  in  the  study  of  the 
.Scriptures  by  following  the  plan  of  my  own  dear  teacher, 
.and   had  at  length  the  happiness   of  finding   that  my 
prayers  for  assistance   had  not   been  left  unanswered. 
The   seed  received  through  the  word,  had  fallen  into 
.good  ground,  and  gradually  brought  forth  fruit  in  that 
peace  which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away. 
.  She  had  all  the  trusting  faith  and  simplicity  of  a  child, 
and  was  thus  saved  from  the  doubts  and  temptations  of 
those   who   lean   to   their   own    understandings.      She 
-sought  the  Bible  daily,  for  that  spiritual  food  suited  to 
.her   state   and   condition,   and   prayed   for   her    absent 
daughter  night  and  morning,  and  entreated  her  God  and 
Saviour  that  He  would  graciously  interpose  to  save  her 


ANNA   PERCIVAL,    OR   THE     MANIAC    MOTHER.  55 

child  from  the  effects  of  her  maternal  neglect  in  not  hav- 
ing trained  her  in  the  way  she  should  go.  In  her  letters 
to  Anna  she  was  faithful  to  her  duty,  and  endeavored  to 
impress  her  with  a  sense  of  her  absence  from  God,  and 
her  need  of  a  Saviour.  But  alas  !  in  the  hour  of  pros- 
perity and  earthly  happiness  these  truths  and  warnings 
pass  by  us  unheeded !  It  is  only  when  we  see  all  we 
have  trusted  to,  lying  in  ruin  around  us,  that  we  become 
convinced  of  our  sin  and  folly,  and  bitterly  feel  the  want 
of  a  better  hope,  and  a  surer  foundation  than  this  world 
can  offer. 

We  heard  frequently  from  Anna,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
she  could  write  of  nothing  but  Frederick, — her  idolized 
husband.  In  answer  to  one  of  Mrs.  Percival's  letters, 
she  said,  "  you  tell  me,  my  dear  Mother  that  worldly 
bliss  is  illusive  and  transitory,  and  that  it  cannot  satisfy 
an  immortal  mind,  but  I  have  not  found  it  thus ;  for  the 
happiness  that  I  am  blessed  with,  leaves  me  nothing  to 
wish  for.  In  devoting  my  affections  to  one  like  Fred- 
erick, in  living  for  him,  in  doing  all  that  I  can  to  please 
him,  I  have  found  a  fruition  of  bliss  surpassing  the 
brightest  dream  of  fancy.  Believe  me,  my  mother,  the 
only  cloud  that  throws  its  passing  shadow  over  my  sun- 
lighted  prospects,  is  the  thought  that  he  is  mortal. 
Sometimes  when  I  look  on  him  in  all  the  pride  of  his 
manly  beauty,  and  his  gifted  intellect,  I  mentally  exclaim, 
can  these  ever  be  a  prey  to  death  ?  The  idea  that  I  may 
lose  him  comes  over  me  with  shuddering  apprehension, 
even  in  my  happiest  moments,  and  I  clasp  my  arms 
around  him,  and  breathe  the  hope,  that  when  the  hour 
of  separation  comes,  he  may  be  the  survivor." 

After  several  months  residence  abroad,  her  letters 
were  less  frequent,  and  they  were  no  longer  the  same. 
She  seldom  spoke  of  her  husband,  and  when  writing  to 
her  mother  often  expressed  a  wish  to  return,  to  her  dear 


56  ANNA   PERCIVAL,   OR   THE   MANIAC    MOTHER. 

Roseville,  and  said  she  had  a  hope  of  being  once  more 
with  her  mother  and  friend  the  ensuing  autumn;  hut 
she  could  not  state  the  period  of  her  departure  from 
Italy,  with  any  certainty,  as  it  depended  entirely  on  Mr. 
Elton's  arrangements.  In  her  letters  to  me,  she  no 
longer  eulogized  the  happiness  of  wedded  life,  nor  ban- 
tered me  on  my  obstinate  resolution  to  be  an  old  maid, 
or  with  her  playful  declaration  that  she  would  make  me 
repent  it,  when  I  saw  how  happy  she  was.  The  cheer- 
ful vivacity,  and  the  continual  flow  of  gayety  that  once 
pervaded  them,  gave  place  to  a  gentle  sadness,  and  she 
now  often  reverted  to  her  happy  school-days  and  her 
dear  Mrs.  Norville.  If  a  stranger  had  read  them,  there 
could  nothing  be  found  which  a  happy  wife  might  not 
have  written ;  and  even  her  mother  seemed  to  be  uncon- 
scious of  any  change  in  her  daughter's  feelings  ;  she 
would  sometimes  say,  "  I  do  not  wonder  she  should  wish 
to  be  at  home  again,  after  being  so  long  away  from  us." 
But  to  me  her  simplest  expressions  spoke  volumes,  and 
what  would  have  been  unnoticed  by  one  who  had  not 
studied  her  heart,  were  not  trifles  to  me ;  they  revealed 
to  me  this  painful  truth,  that  my  Anna  was  unhappy. — 
the  cause  was  but  a  conjecture.  And  had  she  so  soon 
awakened  from  her  bright  dream  of  bliss ;  was  it  the 
reality  of  life  that  now  opened  itself  before  her  in  all  its 
sterility  and  ruggedness  ?  The  worldly  moralist  might 
exclaim, — Alas,  for  the  sad  doom  of  fate  !  but  the  Chris- 
tian one  acknowledges  in  these  trials  the  hand  of  a 
Father,  who  thus  graciously  saves  us  from  our  self-delu- 
sion, and  turns  us  from  earthly  idols  to  worship  Him,  the 
only  being  worthy  our  adoration. 

It  was  a  cold  evening  in  November,  Mrs.  Percival  and 
I  had  seated  ourselves  beside  a  comfortable  fire,  and 
were  arranging  our  respective  employments  for  the  even- 
ing. She  had  placed  her  Bible  on  the  stand  before  her, 


ANNA    PERCIVAL,    OR    THE    MANIAC     MOTHER.  57 

and  I  had  my  writing  desk  open  to  write  a  letter  to  my 
dear  adopted  brothers.  The  loud  rushing  of  the  blast 
through  the  leafless  boughs,  and  its  hollow  moan  as  it 
swept  past  the  dwelling,  arrested  our  attention,  and  mu- 
tually reminded  us  of  the  dangers  of  "  those  who  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships."  Mrs.  Percival  said,  "It  is  a 
fearful  night  for  the  vessels  upon  our  coast ;  I  trust  my 
dear  Anna  will  not  attempt  the  voyage  at  this  tempestu- 
ous season,  much  as  I  wish  to  see  her,  I  would  rather 
she  would  defer  her  return  until  spring."  As  soon  as 
she  ceased  speaking,  we  heard  the  sound  of  carriage 
wheels,  and  Mrs.  Percival  exclaimed,  "  that  must  be 
Anna — for  who  else  would  come  here  on  such  an  even- 
ing." We  both  ran  into  the  hall,  and  the  mother  and 
daughter  were  folded  in  each  other's  arms. 

When  the  tumultuous  joy  of  our  unexpected  meeting 
had  subsided,  I  saw  that  my  friend  was  altered,  very 
much  altered  !  She  was  pale  and  haggard,  and  had  lost 
the  sparkling  vivacity  that  once  animated  her  counte- 
nance. There  was  a  shade  of  painful  thought  that  came 
over  it,  whenever  she  ceased  speaking,  as  if  it  were  its 
habitual  expression.  And  Frederick  Elton  too  was 
changed.  He  had  still  the  same  courtly  elegance  of 
manner,  but  his  face  had  lost  much  of  its  intellectual 
beauty,  and  there  was  a  coarseness  about  it,  which  I 
never  saw  before. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  a  day  or  two  afterwards, 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Percival,  "  Anna  has  seen  something  of 
the  world  since  we  left  Roseville.  She  has  found  some 
difference  between  the  polished  society  of  Europe,  and 
the  cold  precision,  and  awkward  reserve  of  the  limited 
circles  she  mingled  with  here.  She  expected  me  to  play 
the  domestic  man  in  Italy,  and  this  you  well  know,  Mrs. 
Percival,  would  be  as  much  out  of  place  in  that  sunny 
clime,  as  one  of  your  wintry  snow  storms."  "  But  now" 


58  ANNA   PEECIVAL,    OR    THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

said  he,  turning  to  Anna,  "  that  I  am  once  more  in 
America,  I  must  do  all  that  good  American  husbands  do. 
This  comfortable  fireside  will  serve  for  our  picture — you 
will  be  seated  in  a  chair,  sewing  as  industriously  as  if 
depending  on  the  labors  of  your  needle  for  support,  while 
I  am  lolling  in  a  rocking  chair  beside  you  with  a  news- 
paper in  my  hand,  reading  to  you  the  record  of  mar- 
riages, deaths  and  accidents  ;  or  taking  a  nap  with  my 
feet  on  the  fender.  How  happy  we  shall  be,  and  what  a 
fine  domestic  couple  we  shall  make  !  If  any  of  my 
friends  in  Europe  should  happen  to  pay  us  a  visit,  they 
would  never  recognize  Frederick  Elton  in  the  sober 
Benedict — the  uxorious,  home-staying  husband.  Then  I 
must  wait  on  you,  whenever  you  wish  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  a  friend ;  attend  you  to  church,  or  in  your 
shopping  excursions.  I  shall  be  quite  a  model  married 
man,  do  you  not  think  so,  Mrs.  Elton  ?" 

A  forced  smile  passed  over  Anna's  face,  but  a  tear 
started  in  her  eye ;  and  I  saw  that  his  badinage  was 
painful  to  her.  She  made  him  no  reply,  but  hastily  ad- 
dressed some  question  to  her  mother,  as  if  anxious  to 
change  the  subject.  In  those  few  moments  how  much 
was  revealed !  What  a  life  of  suffering  I  saw  before  my 
Anna.  She  was  united  to  a  man  who  could  not  appre- 
ciate her  devoted  attachment ;  one  who  selfishly  followed 
his  own  pleasures ;  made  a  jest  of  domestic  happiness, 
and  ridiculed  every  feeling  that  makes  marriage  honora- 
ble or  sacred. 

A  few  weeks  after  their  return,  Frederick  took  his 
wife  to  a  home  adorned  with  all  that  wealth  could  pro- 
cure, or  fashion  render  attractive.  Many  of  her  former 
acquaintance  envied  her  the  possession  of  so  much 
splendor,  and  thought  she  must  be  a  happy  woman  in 
having  secured  such  a  matrimonial  prize  as  the  rich  and 
brilliant  Mr.  Elton ;  but  how  gladly  would  Anna  have 


ANNA    PERC1VAL,   OR   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER.  59 

relinquished  this  gorgeous  mansion  for'  the  humblest 
dwelling,  made  bright  by  a  husband's  devoted  affection. 
The  love  of  Frederick  Elton  was  but  the  passing  whim 
of  the  moment.  He  was  fascinated  by  Anna's  youthful 
loveliness,  from  contrasting  it  with  the  designing  co- 
quetry and  artificial  charms  of  the  European  females,  in 
whose  society  he  had  lived  for  several  years  ;  and  when 
he  first  saw  her,  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  her  dawning 
womanhood,  took  him  by  surprise.  Her  face  lost  its 
attraction  with  its  novelty,  and  as  he  was  incapable  of 
valuing  the  love  he  had  inspired,  or  of  understanding  the 
excellencies  of  her  character,  he  left  her  society  for  that 
of  other  females,  and  my  unhappy  friend  soon  found  that 
she  had  sacrificed  the  whole  wealth  of  her  young  affec- 
tions upon  a  heartless  libertine.  When  this  dreadful 
truth  was  first  revealed,  oh  who  can  tell  the  full  tide  of 
misery  that  rushed  upon  her  trusting,  devoted  heart ! 

She  had  already  learned  the  hard  task  of  wearing  a 

I       smile  upon  her  face,  while  her  heart  was  almost  bursting 

with  conflicting  emotions ;   and  when  mingling  with  the 

I     world,  or  when  presiding  at  his  festive  board,  she  hid 

1     her  sufferings  under  a  calm  exterior.     The  natural  pride 

of  woman  nerved  her  in  the  effort,  for  who  can  brook  to 

bare  a  wounded  heart  before  the  gaze  of  strangers  ?  but 

when   alone   with   her   mother,   and  the  friend  of  her 

youth,  it  was  heart-rending  to  witness  the  outgushing  of 

her  agonized  feelings.     We  both  endeavored  to  support 

her  wearied,  fainting  spirit;    but  how  could  we  offer  her 

consolation  ?  all  that  we  could  do  was  to  offer  up  our 

prayers  to  God,  that  He  would  be  her  stay  and  comforter 

in  her  sore  affliction. 

Frederick  Elton  had  spent  a  life  of  excitement,  and  in 
the  absence  of  the  varied  amusements  he  had  found  in 
Europe,  he  had  recourse  to  a  constant  succession  of  con- 
vivial meetings  with  men  as  profligate  as  himself.  This 


60  ANNA   PERCIVAL,   OR    THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

led  him  speedily  to  that  fatal  vortex — a  habit  of  frequent 
inebriation  ;  and  this  once  reached,  all  hope  of  recovery 
was  gone.  Even  in  the  midst  of  his  dissipated  career  in 
Italy,  he  would  have  scorned  the  degraded  creature  he 
became  in  his  own  land.  While  there,  the  giddy  whirl 
of  brilliant  attractions,  found  in  the  theatre,  the  opera, 
the  fashionable  gaming  clubs,  and  the  fascinating  but 
corrupting  society  of  Italian  females,  gave  him  all  that 
he  craved  in  his  thirst  for  amusement,  without  losing  his 
caste  as  a  man  of  elegance  and  fashion  ;  but  in  the  better 
regulated,  and  more  virtuous  social  life  of  his  native 
country,  he  was  forced  to  descend  from  his  pride  of 
place,  to  seek  congenial  companions. 

Night  after  night  did  his  wretched  wife  sit  by  her  soli- 
tary hearth,  waiting  yet  dreading  his  return.  And  when 
at  the  hour  of  midnight  or  early  dawn,  she  heard  his 
uncertain  footsteps,  and  beheld  him  staggering  into  the 
room,  disfigured  by  brutal  intoxication,  oh  who  can  des- 
cribe her  misery.  She  had  idolized  her  Frederick,  as 
she  once  imagined  him — noble,  virtuous  and  high  mind- 
ed, but  her  heart  loathed  the  degraded  being  before  her. 
The  fastidious  refinement  of  her  tastes,  which  had  led  her 
to  reject  many  suitors  more  worthy  of  her,  now  deepened 
the  disgust  she  felt  for  her  husband.  And  much  as  has 
been  said  and  sung  by  man  of  woman's  unchanging  affec- 
tions, that  she  can  love  in  whatever  guilt  or  shame  she 
may  find  in  the  one  to  whom  she  has  given  her  heart,  yet 
woman  seldom  or  never  responds  to  this  sentiment.  For 
woman's  love,  if  it  be  worthy  the  name,  can  find  no  ali- 
ment in  vice  or  impurity.  She  may  continue  the  same 
in  her  outward  attentions,  she  may  be  as  assiduous  to 
please,  and  as  careful  not  to  offend,  but  it  is  from  a  high 
sense  of  her  duty  as  a  wife  and  not  from  that  affection 
which  once  prompted  her  actions.  She  may  mourn  over 
his  wretchedness  with  bitter  lamentings,  and  compassion- 


ANNA    PERCIVAL,    OR   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER.  61 

ate  his  failings  with  a  seraph's  pity,  but  she  cannot,  can- 
not love  him !  She  is  slow  to  believe  in  his  guilt,  and  is 
the  last  one  on  earth  who  will  give  credence  to  the  testi- 
mony of  his  shame,  her  confidence  clings  to  him  while 
there  is  yet  a  solitary  hope  to  rest  upon,  but  when  he- 
stands  before  her  in  all  his  vileness,  the  ties  that  bound 
him  to  her  heart  are  rent  asunder  and  he  falls  from  the 
place  he  held  in  her  affections,  never,  never  to  rise  again ! 
The  life  of  my  ill-fated  friend  became  more  and  more 
wretched.  To  neglect  and  desertion  her  husband  added 
cruelty,  and  at  last  denied  her  even  the  society  of  those 
who  loved  her — the  mother  and  friend  so  dear  to  her. 
He  would  not  permit  her  to  come  to  Roseville,  and  we 
were  forbidden  access  to  his  dwelling.  It  was  when  thus 
deprived  of  all  intercourse  with  her  kindred  or  friends 
that  she  gave  birth  to  a  lovely  boy.  And  at  this  trying 
season,  when  the  presence  of  a  mother  is  so  anxiously 
longed  for  and  so  much  needed,  hired  menials  were  her 
only  attendants.  Mrs.  Percival,  agitated  by  contending 
emotions,  sent  hourly  messengers  to  know  the  state  of 
her  daughter's  health.  As  soon  as  Anna  was  able,  she 
wrote  a  few  lines  to  relieve  her  mother's  anxiety.  The 
sweet  babe  soon  became  a  source  of  consolation  to  my 
unhappy  friend,  but  when  it  grew  older  and  she  could 
trace  its  striking  resemblance  to  its  father,  this  discovery 
so  delightful  to  the  happy  wife,  gave  such  a  pang  of  an- 
guish to  her  bosom  that  she  involuntarily  turned  her  eyes 
away  from  it.  Sometimes  she  would  wildly  say,  "  yes, 
it  was  thus  he  must  have  looked  when  a  nursling  in  his 
mother's  arms,  so  mildly  beautiful,  so  guileless,  so  inno- 
cent— and  what  if  he  should  become  all  his  father  is  now ! 
Oh  is  it  not  better  for  this  lovely  babe  to  die,  even  if  it 
should  wring  my  own  heart  with  an  added  weight  of  sor- 
row. It  will  be  nurtured  amidst  tears  and  affliction,  it 
6 


62  ANNA   PKRCIVAL,    OB   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

will  be  reared  through  scenes  of  pollution.  Oh !  my 
child,  my  child!  an  early  grave  is  your  only  safety." 

The  excited  feelings  of  my  unfortunate  friend,  increased 
in  intensity  by  her  isolated  situation,  proved  too  much  for 
her  in  her  feeble  condition,  and  in  a  few  weeks  after  the 
birth  of  her  child  she  was  raving  in  the  delirium  of  a 
brain  fever.  She  constantly  entreated  her  mother  to 
come  to  her,  and  the  physician  told  her  husband  that  her 
mother's  presence  and  attention  was  the  only  hope  of  her 
restoration.  Mrs.  Percival  was  sent  for,  and  what  a 
painful  scene  presented  itself  as  we  entered  poor  Anna's 
chamber.  The  dear  invalid  lay  tossing  from  side  to  side, 
her  eyes  wildly  rolling,  but  without  a  ray  of  recognition 
when  they  turned  towards  us,  as  we  stood  by  her  bed. 
Her  beautiful  babe  lay  sleeping  in  its  cradle  in  all  the 
happy  unconsciousness  of  infancy.  It  was  a  saddening 
sight  to  see  it  smile  and  move  its  little  lips,  as  if  partak- 
ing its  maternal  nourishment,  it  seemed  as  though  it  were 
dreaming, — it  lay  upon  its  mother's  bosom.  Poor  infant ! 
it  was  indeed  the  child  of  misfortune ! 

For  several  days  the  life  of  my  friend  was  despaired 
of,  but  the  violence  of  the  disease  subsided  and  left  her — 
a  maniac  ! 

The  unconscious  mother  and  her  tender  babe  were 
removed  to  Roseville.  Sometimes  the  paroxysms  of 
mental  derangement  were  so  violent  that  she  required 
close  confinement,  but  generally  it  was  like  a  settled  mel- 
ancholy. She  seemed  to  have  no  knowledge  of  any  one 
or  anything  around  her,  and  would  sit  for  hours  gazing 
vacantly  on  one  spot,  as  if  in  gloomy  abstraction,  and 
occasionally  she  would  sing  snatches  of  old  songs,  the 
favorite  airs  of  her  girlhood.  The  soft,  musical  tones  of 
her  voice  thrilled  through  my  heart  with  bitter  anguish. 
I  thought  of  the  past,  and  contrasted  it  with  the  present ! 

One  day  she  asked  for  her  baby,  and  appeared  to  show 


ANNA   PERC1VAL,    OR   THE    MANIAC    MOTHER.  68 

so  much  anxiety  to  see  it,  that  with  the  advice  of  the 
physician  it  was  brought  to  her.  She  caught  it  in  her 
arms,  talked  to  it  in  terms  of  rapturous  endearment,  and 
opened  her  bosom  as  if  to  give  it  nourishment,  when  gaz- 
ing intently  on  it  as  its  beautiful  dark  eyes  were  turned 
upwards  to  her  face,  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  it  is  not 
my  baby,  it  is  the  demon  that  haunts  me,  it  tried  to  de- 
ceive me  by  coming  in  the  form  of  my  child,  but  it  shall 
not  cheat  me  thus  !"  Before  we  had  time  to  reach  her, 
she  rushed  to  the  open  window,  and  threw  out  her  child, 
exclaiming,  with  a  laugh  of  triumph,  "  now  it  will  never 
haunt  me  again  !"  Her  wretched  mother,  with  a  scream 
of  agony  rushed  out,  and  when  she  raised  it  from  the 
ground,  its  life  was  extinct !  The  heart-breaking  misery 
that  succeeded  this  dreadful  incident,  I  cannot  record,  it 
makes  me  shudder  even  now  to  recall  it,  and  often  have 
I  vainly  wished  to  blot  it  from  my  memory. 

Several  months  after  this  harrowing  scene,  the  poor 
maniac  became  extremely  ill.  Her  disease  was  one  that 
rapidly  wasted  her  strength,  and  for  hours  she  lay  as  if 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  At  last  she  seemed  to 
revive,  and  from  one  or  two  questions  she  asked,  we  had 
the  faint  hope  that  her  reason  would  be  restored.  The 
physician  advised  her  removal  into  the  chamber  she  oc- 
cupied previous  to  her  marriage,  and  to  have  every  thing 
fixed  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  see  it.  In  all  the 
agitation  of  newly  awakened  hope,  I  commenced  the 
preparations.  Her  geraniums  and  roses  were  placed  on 
the  window-sill — her  favorite  books  were  laid  on  her 
work  stand,  her  dressing  table  arranged  according  to  her 
taste,  and  every  chair  was  set  in  its  accustomed  place.  She 
was  under  the  influence  of  a  gentle  opiate  during  her 
removal,  and  when  she  awoke  she  looked  round  on  every 
old  familiar  object  with  a  pleasing  smile,  and  then  turning 
to  us,  as  we  stood  beside  her,  tremblingly  waiting  the  re- 


64     ANNA  PERCIVAL,  OR  THE  MANIAC  MOTHER. 

suit,  she  said,  "  my  dear  Mother,  you  are  almost  worn 
out  in  nursing  me,  for  you  look  much  older  than  when  I 
was  taken  sick.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  been  ill  a  long, 
long  time,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  am  now  getting  well.  And 
you  too,  my  dear  Ellen,  must  be  greatly  fatigued  in  at- 
tending me  so  many  months.  But  I  must  try  to  repay 
you  both  by  loving  you  more  than  ever." 

As  her  strength  returned,  she  would  sometimes  say  to 
me,  "  T  have  strange  thoughts  at  times,  it  seems  as  if  I 
have  been  married  and  my  husband  was  unkind.  I 
dreamed  too  that  I  had  a  lovely  infant  and  it  was  taken 
from  me.  I  must  have  been  delirious,  and  these  were 
my  feverish  fancies.  And  yet  it  appears  so  much  like 
reality, — there  is  so  much  confusion  here,"  she  said, 
placing  her  finger  on  her  forehead,  "  that  my  dreams  are 
like  real  occurrences." 

She  continued  to  dwell  upon  these  thoughts  until  the 
full  recollection  returned  of  all  that  had  happened  previ- 
ous to  her  derangement.  But  of  this  and  her  infant's 
miserable  death  she  was  happily  unconscious.  She 
thought  that  she  had  suffered  a  long,  dangerous  illness, 
and  that  her  baby  died  during  the  time  she  was  too  weak 
to  be  conscious  of  her  loss.  Her  wretched,  degraded 
husband  was  suddenly  cut  off,  after  a  violent  fit  of  delir- 
ium tremens,  a  month  or  two  previous  to  her  restoration 
to  reason.  And  when  she  became  well  enough  to  inquire 
for  him,  we  told  her  he  had  died  during  her  illness. 

When  her  mind  was  entirely  restored,  she  often  re- 
quested me  to  read  to  her,  and  I  took  up  the  Bible  as  the 
only  book  that  could  give  consolation  to  this  stricken  one. 
She  became  so  interested  in  its  perusal,  that  she  wished 
for  no  other.  She  would  sometimes  audibly  join  her 
mother  in  the  morning  and  evening  prayer,  and  we  had 
the  happiness  of  finding  that  the  calm  and  holy  influence 
of  religious  truth  was  gradually  dawning  upon  her  mind. 


ANNA    PERCIVAL,    OR    THE    MANIAC    MOTHER.  65 

After  this  blessed  change  was  wrought  in  her,  she  was 
enabled  to  review  her  past  trials,  and  with  serenity  ac- 
knowledged that  for  her  sake  it  was  good  that  she  had 
seen  much  affliction.  She  never  mentioned  her  hus- 
band's name  after  we  told  her  of  his  death,  and  appeared 
to  avoid  speaking  of  any  circumstance  with  which  his 
memory  was  associated,  but  one  day  after  slightly  allud- 
ing to  her  married  life,  she  said,  "  my  affections  were  so 
wedded  to  earthly  objects,  that  nothing  but  this  total 
wreck  could  have  weaned  me  from  them.  This  world 
was  so  attractive  that  I  could  even  have  given  up  the 
hope  of  heaven  to  have  been  immortal  here.  But  the 
dark  thunder  storm  has  passed  and  the  blue  heaven  of 
peace  is  graciously  revealed.  The  remaining  years  of 
my  life  will,  I  trust,  be  devoted  to  the  service  of  Him 
whom  I  have  long  neglected  for  this  perishing  world. 
There  is  a  calm  resignation  upon  my  spirit,  that  I  would 
not  exchange  for  all  the  pleasure  I  enjoyed  in  the  days 
of  my  youthful  enthusiasm. 

The  widowed  mother  and  daughter  secluded  them- 
selves from  society,  for  hearts  that  have  been  deeply 
wounded  in  the  conflict  of  life,  feel  that  the  marks  of  their 
suffering  remain,  although  their  wounds  have  been  healed , 
and  they  withdraw  into  the  congenial  quiet  of  retirement, 
as  best  fitting  for  those  who  have  passed  through  many 
sorrows.  But  Mrs.  Percival  and  Anna  were  not  inactive 
in  their  seclusion.  The  blessings  of  the  poor  and  the 
ignorant  followed  them  as  they  went  from  one  humble 
dwelling  to  another,  in  their  errands  of  love  and  mercy. 
"  Sorrow  is  indeed  a  sacred  thing,"  and  every  recipient 
of  their  benevolence  from  the  parent  to  the  child  evinced 
their  sympathy  for  their  dear  Mrs.  Elton  by  a  delicate, 
respectful  tenderness  when  addressing  her,  that  frequently 
brought  to  her  eyes  tears  of  grateful  feeling.  In  doing 
good  to  others,  and  in  laboring  to  promote  their  happi- 
6* 


66  ANNA   PERCIVAL,    OR    THE    MANIAC    MOTHER. 

ness,  she  lost  the  sense  of  her  own  misfortunes,  and  found 
a  rich  reward  in  the  approval  of  God  and  the  testimony 
of  a  good  conscience. 

Mrs.  Percival  and  Anna  were  desirous  that  I  should 
fix  my  home  at  Roseville,  but  I  wished  to  be  nearer  my 
dear  boys,  and  as  I  now  considered  myself  of  sufficient 
age  to  become  mistress  of  a  house,  I  began  to  look  out 
for  a  suitable  residence. 

I  was  at  length  so  fortunate  as  to  find  one  suited  to  my 
taste,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  College  that  my  dear 
Edward  and  Charles  were  about  to  enter.  They  were 
to  reside  with  me,  and  my  time  was  soon  pleasantly  occu- 
'pied  in  arranging  it  for  our  reception.  My  little  parlor 
and  library  were  contiguous,  and  the  windows  of  the  latter 
opened  upon  an  extensive  lawn  richly  shaded  by  groups 
of  forest  trees,  and  between  the  lofty  arches  formed  by 
the  united  curve  of  their  branches,  there  was  a  beautiful 
vista  of  the  blue  hazy  mountains,  with  the  nearer  view  of 
hills,  fields  and  woods,  in  the  rich  garniture  of  summer. 
The  room  next  to  my  dear  brothers'  chamber  was  fitted 
up  for  their  study,  and  I  experienced  a  melancholy  pleas- 
ure in  placing  on  their  book-shelves  the  little  library 
selected  for  them  during  their  infancy,  by  their  devoted 
mother.  As  soon  as  every  thing  was  in  readiness,  I  sent 
for  the  two  boys,  and  seldom  did  three  happier  beings 
ever  meet  together  than  when  I  welcomed  them  to  Glen- 
wood  Cottage  as  their  future  home. 

After  taking  them  to  their  study  and  showing  them  the 
touching  evidence  of  their  mother's  love  and  forethought, 
I  presented  them  with  a  letter  written  for  them  a  few 
days  before  her  death,  and  to  be  given  them  as  soon  as 
they  came  to  reside  with  me.  It  was  filled  with  such 
counsel  as  only  a  mother  like  Mrs.  Norville  could  give, 
and  it  concluded  by  telling  them  to  regard  me  as  her 
representative,  that  they  must  love  and  obey  me  as  their 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  67 

older  sister,  and  always  address  me  by  that  endearing 
title.  They  read  the  letter  together,  and  as  soon  as  it  was 
finished,  my  dear  thoughtful  Edward  took  my  hand  in 
his  and  sobbed  as  if  his  heart  was  bursting,  while  my 
ardent  and  enthusiastic  Charles  threw  his  arms  round 
my  neck,  saying,  "  Yes,  we  will  always  love  and  obey 
you,  my  dear  sister  Ellen,  and  do  all  we  can  to  make  you 
happy. 

My  heart  was  full,  too  full  for  utterance,  I  breathed  a 
silent  prayer  to  God,  to  bless  these  dear  boys  and  to  make 
me  faithful  to  the  solemn  trust  committed  to  my  charge. 


CHAPTER    V. 

EMILY  HOWARD,  OR  THE  GENTLE  WIFE. 

The  rose  smells  as  sweetly  in  sunshine  and  air, 
But  the  greenhouse  has  all  our  affection  and  care; 
The  lark  sings  as  sweetly  while  soaring  above, 
But  the  bird  that  we  nurse,  is  the  bird  that  we  love. 

IN  giving  the  subsequent  history  of  those  schoolmates 
previously  described,  when  pupils  at  Oakwood,  the  re- 
membrance of  Emily  Howard  is  always  associated  with 
Anna  Percival,  as  the  two  dearest  friends  of  my  girlhood 
and  womanhood.  From  the  joyous  season  of  childhood 
to  the  quiet  evening  of  declining  years,  they  have  been 
very  dear  to  me,  and  our  friendship  has  been  that  of  a 
life-time. 

I  love  to  recall  my  first  visit  to  Emily,  after  her  return 
to  her  paternal  home,  and  whenever  I  look  on  a  rare  and 
beautiful  exotic,  it  always  reminds  me  of  the  girlhood  of 
the  sweet  and  gentle  Emily  Howard.  She  was  fair  and 


68  EMILY    HOWARD,    OR   THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

delicate  as  a  tender  flower,  and  you  felt  that  she  needed  all 
the  protecting  carefulness  with  which  she  was  nurtured. 
Her  slight  and  graceful  figure,  her  complexion  of  trans- 
parent purity,  the  cloud-like  softness  of  her  golden  hair, 
the  heavenly  expression  of  her  mild  blue  eye,  made  her 
appear  too  ethereal  for  earth,  and  too  fragile  to  endure 
its  trials  or  its  duties.  Her  father  cherished  her  like  a 
nursling  plant,  and  seemed  to  think  she  was  born  to  be 
ministered  unto,  and  not  to  minister  to  others,  even  to 
him.  As  far  as  regarded  the  formation  of  her  tastes  and 
the  cultivation  of  her  mind,  he  faithfully  discharged  his 
duty  as  a  parent,  but  he  appeared  to  forget  that  this  world 
is  a  scene  of  action,  where  every  one  is  expected  to  per- 
form their  allotted  part,  and  where  woman  especially, 
even  the  most  delicate  and  tenderly  reared,  is  seldom 
permitted  to  claim  an  exemption  from  bearing  her  own 
heavy  portion  of  life's  burden. 

Fortunately  for  Emily,  her  disposition  was  naturally 
amiable  and  singularly  free  from  selfishness,  and  she 
thus  escaped  many  faults  that  usually  result  from  unlim- 
ited indulgence  and  idolatrous  attachment  in  parental 
training.  She  was  never  happier  than  when  in  the  soci- 
ety of  her  father,  she  anticipated  every  wish  and  was  as 
assiduous  in  her  attentions  to  him  as  if  he  had  exacted  it 
from  her  as  a  duty.  Her  love  to  him,  though  not  as 
exclusive  as  that  he  felt  for  her,  was  equally  tender  and 
devoted.  She  had  the  most  deferential  respect  for  his 
opinions  and  character,  and  reverenced  him  for  his  sacred 
attachment  to  the  memory  of  her  mother.  She  took  me 
into  his  room  and  showed  me  the  portrait  of  his  departed 
wife,  which  he  had  placed  where  he  could  look  on  it,  the 
last  object  upon  which  his  eye  should  rest  at  night,  and 
the  first  to  meet  his  waking  glance  at  morning.  She 
told  me  that  he  always  spent  the  anniversary  of  her  death 
in  the  solitude  of  his  own  private  study,  and  that  on  those 


EMILY    HOWARD,   OR   THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  69 

days  he  never  saw  any  one  that  called  on  him.  "  I  fear, 
my  dear  Ellen,"  said  she,  "  that  there  are  few  men  who 
can  love  as  my  father  loved,  but  I  could  not  be  happy 
with  less." 

In  addition  to  her  personal  and  mental  attraction,  Em- 
ily had  the  reputation  of  being  an  heiress,  and  her  recep- 
tion in  the  gay  world  was  as  nattering  as  even  her  father 
could  have  anticipated.  The  beautiful  Emily  Howard 
was  the  theme  of  general  admiration.  Her  society  was 
courted  by  all,  and  she  soon  became  the  reigning  belle. 
Though  her  father's  pride  was  gratified  by  the  number  of 
her  admirers,  yet  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  none  of  her 
suitors  had  won  her  affections,  for  he  was,  as  yet,  unwill- 
ing to  relinquish  his  lovely  daughter,  even  to  a  husband 
every  way  worthy  of  her. 

In  a  summer's  tour  through  the  Northern  States,  Mr. 
Howard  and  Emily  became  acquainted  with  Mr.  Har- 
court,  an  eminent  lawyer  of  New  York.  They  had  trav- 
eled together  up  the  beautiful  Hudson,  and  remained 
several  days  at  Balston  and  Saratoga,  as  inmates  of  the 
same  house,  and  although  Mr.  Harcourt  had  contemplated 
a  different  route  from  that  fixed  on  by  Mr.  Howard,  yet 
the  agreeable  companionship  o/  the  father,  and  the  rare 
beauty  of  the  daughter,  induced  him  to  change  his  deter- 
mination. He  requested  permission  to  join  them  in  their 
excursion  to  the  lakes,  and  he  was  found  to  be  a  delight- 
ful accession  to  their  party,  being  a  man  of  taste,  intellect 
and  varied  information.  He  was  not  slow  in  discovering 
that  the  charms  of  Emily's  mind  and  disposition  even 
surpassed  those  of  her  person,  and  he  became  quite  assid- 
uous in  his  attentions. 

Mr.  Harcourt  had  mingled  much  in  female  society,  but 
had  entered  upon  the  early  stage  of  bachelorship  with  a 
heart  as  yet  untouched  by  female  attractions.  His  wealth, 
talents,  and  known  obduracy,  had  made  him  the  object  of 


70  EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

so  many  designing  attentions,  that  he  began  to  look  on 
every  woman  as  a  coquette,  and  kept  his  heart  carefully 
guarded  against  every  attack.  After  the  tiresome  uni- 
formity of  fashionable  females,  whose  forms,  minds  and 
tastes  seem  to  be  carefully  chiseled  after  the  same  model, 
Emily  Howard  came  before  him  like  a  being  from  another 
sphere.  Her  unadorned  beauty,  the  graceful  simplicity 
of  her  manners,  and  the  freshness  and  originality  of  her 
mind,  to  htm  Were  novel  attractions.  Emily  was  per- 
fectly natural  and  unstudied  in  all  that  she  said  or  did, 
and  was  in  every  respect  calculated  to  fascinate  the  most 
refined  or  even  fastidious  taste.  The  admiration  she 
excited  was  always  unsought,  and  indeed  so  little  im- 
pression did  it  make  on  her  mind,  that  her  father's  atten- 
tions were  more  gratifying  to  her  than  those  of  any  other 
being.  Emily  respected  Mr.  Harcourt,  and  was  delighted 
with  his  intelligent  and  agreeable  conversation,  but  she 
had  not  thought  of  him  as  a  lover.  It  was  true  that  his 
society  gave  her  more  pleasure  than  that  of  any  other 
gentleman  she  had  known,  but  this  she  thought  was  ow- 
ing to  the  congeniality  of  their  tastes,  and  to  the  intellec- 
tual graces  of  his  own  gifted  mind.  She  looked  forward 
to  their  return  to  New  York  with  regret,  as  she  knew 
they  then  would  be  separated,  perhaps  forever,  from  the 
talented  Mr.  Harcourt. 

On  the  morning  of  their  departure  from  New  York, 
Mr.  Harcourt  accompanied  them  to  the  boat,  and  as  he 
was  taking  leave  of  Mr.  Howard,  he  requested  permission 
to  visit  him.  As  he  bid  Emily  farewell,  the  slight  pres- 
sure of  her  hand  and  his  faltering  voice,  first  revealed  to 
her  his  feelings  towards  her.  It  sent  a  thrill  through  her 
heart,  and  she  recalled  the  strange  circumstances  of  their 
parting  again  and  again.  Her  father  pointed  out  to  her 
the  beautiful  scenes  through  which  they  were  rapidly 
passing,  but  found  it  difficult  to  rouse  her  from  the  reverie 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  71 

into  which  she  had  fallen.  Emily  had  always  been  an 
ardent  admirer  of  nature,  but  now  the  picturesque  har- 
bor, and  the  noble  bay  with  its  island  shores,  made  as 
faint  an  impression  on  her  mind  as  a  fleeting  dream,  for 
her  memory  was  busily  retracing  every  little  incident 
connected  with  her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Harcourt,  and 
shedding  a  new  light  on  trifles  unnoticed  before.  Her 
father's  observing  eye  soon  saw  what  was  dwelling  on 
her  thoughts,  and  he  said  to  her  in  a  low  tone,  "  we  will 
see  Mr.  Harcourt  in  a  few  weeks  at  Elmwood."  A  crim- 
son flush  passed  over  Emily's  beautiful  face,  but  quickly 
recovering  herself  she  called  her  father's  attention  to  some 
object  on  the  Jersey  shore,  and  began  to  express  her  ad- 
miration of  the  scenes  around  her.  Her  father  smiled, 
and  said,  "  your  admiration  is  now  sadly  thrown  away, 
for  you  have  passed  the  beautiful  prospects  most  worthy 
of  it,  without  even  a  passing  notice."  Her  woman's  pride 
soon  took  alarm,  and  she  exerted  herself,  so  as  to  appear 
deeply  interested  in  every  thing  she  saw,  reserving  her 
strangely  delightful  musings  for  her  hours  of  solitude. 

When  Emily  returned  to  her  once  loved  home,  it 
seemed  as  if  it  had  lost  all  its  charms  during  her  absence. 
There  was  a  strange  void  within  her  heart,  and  a  painful 
sense  of  loneliness  pressed  heavily  on  her  spirit.  She 
would  steal  away  to  some  favorite  haunt,  and  sitting  down 
on  a  grassy  bank  overshadowed  by  embowering  elms, 
she  would  recall  the  beautiful  scenes  through  which  she 
had  journeyed,  and  treasure  up  every  expression  that  had 
fallen  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Harcourt.  Night  after  night 
would  she  sit  by  her  chamber  window,  when  the  full 
moon  poured  its  mellow  light  on  the  prospect  without, 
with  her  gaze  resting  on  its  soft,  still  beauties,  while  her 
thoughts  were  far  away  with  him  whom  she  had  just 
learned  to  love.  Lost  in  blissful  musings  on  the  past,  and 
in  agitating  anticipations  of  the  future,  the  hours  passed 


72       EMILY  HOWARD,  OR  THE  GENTLE  WIFE. 

by  unheeded,  and  the  early  dawn  would  often  brighten 
the  east,  before  she  sought  her  couch  to  rest,  in  the  sweet 
hope  of  renewing  her  waking  thoughts  in  the  visions  of 
sleep.  Every  thing  that  he  had  touched  became  sacred 
to  her,  the  specimens  he  had  collected  for  her,  were  taken 
from  her  father's  vase  of  minerals  and  placed  in  her  own 
room.  The  book  she  had  lent  him  was  rendered  doubly 
precious  by  a  few  faint  pencil  strokes,  marking  his  favor- 
ite passages,  and  these  were  read  again  and  again,  yet 
never  lost  their  freshness,  for  in  them  she  fancied  she 
could  trace  some  expression  of  his  love  for  her. 

Happy,  happy  period !  that  comes  but  once  in  the  ex- 
perience of  all ! — the  sunrise  of  love  upon  the  heart — it 
is  the  only  poetic  season  of  its  existence.  Then,  and  then 
only  does  it  shed  a  rosy  light  on  every  object,  the  near 
and  the  distant,  investing  them  with  a  glorious  beauty 
not  their  own  !  The  loved  one  then  appears  as  he  never 
will  again,  for  we  see  him  not  as  he  is,  but  as  imagina- 
tion has  fondly  pictured  him.  We  worship  a  creation  of 
our  own  fancy,  and  forget  that  the  one  we  idolize  is  a 
being  of  earth  and  must  share  the  frailties  and  errors  of 
mortality.  We  vainly  dream  that  every  virtue  and  gift 
of  character  and  intellect  are  centered  in  him,  and  regard 
him  as  the  living  prototype  of  every  favorite  hero  of  his- 
tory or  romance.  And  when  a  nearer  view  in  the  clear 
light  of  truth  has  awakened  us  to  the  reality,  we  too  often 
suffer  the  blame  to  rest  where  it  might  not,  upon  him  and 
not  on  ourselves.  It  is  not  he  who  has  deceived  us,  it  is 
our  own  self-delusion,  and  we  should  remember  this  when 
the  disappointment  comes. 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  day  in  September,  and  Emily, 
tempted  by  the  freshening  breeze,  so  delightful  after  the 
oppressive  heat  of  summer,  had  taken  a  longer  morning 
walk  than  usual.  Her  father  had  left  home  early,  to 
attend  to  some  business  in  the  neighboring  town,  and  she 


EMILY    HOWARD,   OR   THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  73 

hastened  her  steps  when  returning,  lest  she  should  not  be 
back  in  time  to  meet  him.  When  she  had  reached  the 
winding  road  leading  to  the  house,  she  heard  the  sound 
of  approaching  carriage  wheels.  Thinking  it  was  her 
father's  barouche,  she  turned  back  a  few  steps  and  waited 
till  it  came  in  sight,  as  it  was  still  hidden  by  the  shrub- 
bery. As  it  suddenly  emerged  from  the  embowering 
foliage,  she  saw  it  was  a  strange  equipage,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Mr.  Harcourt  was  at  her  side.  She  struggled 
to  recover  herself  from  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the 
surprise,  but  could  not  conceal  the  tumultuous  agitation 
produced  by  this  unexpected  meeting. 

The  happy  days  that  Emily  passed  in  the  society  of 
Mr.  Harcourt,  as  her  acknowledged  and  accepted  lover, 
glided  by  with  the  rapidity  and  indistinctness  of  a  dream. 
And  she  only  awakened  to  consciousness  when  she  found 
herself  again  alone,  looking  forward  to  his  promised  letters 
as  the  only  source  of  consolation  in  his  absence.  When 
the  first  one  was  handed  her  by  her  father,  what  a  tide 
of  emotions  swelled  in  her  heart,  and  she  hastened  to  the 
solitude  of  her  own  room,  that  she  might  read  it  unseen 
by  another.  She  glanced  her  eye  rapidly  over  its  pages 
as  if  she  wished  to  take  in  the  whole  contents  at  once, 
and  then  read  it  again  and  again,  pausing  over  every 
sweet  expression  of  affection,  until  the  whole  was  written 
in  her  memory.  And  when  the  time  came  for  expecting 
another,  how  anxiously  did  she  watch  the  return  of  the 
servant  who  brought  her  father's  papers  from  the  Post 
Office,  and  yet  endeavored  to  hide  her  anxiety  even  from 
her  parent,  under  an  assumed  aspect  of  indifference. 
Strange  mystery  of  the  human  heart !  the  union  of  wo- 
man's pride  and  woman's  love,  and  when  they  both  hold 
an  equal  mastery  over  the  spirit,  what  hours  of  suffering 
it  is  forced  to  endure  ! 

Mr.  Howard  was  pleased  that  Emily's  choice  had 
fallen  upon  one  like  Mr.  Harcourt,  and  the  painful  thought 


74  EMILY    HOWARD,   OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

of  his  leaving  her  parentless  was  softened  by  the  reflec- 
tion that  she  would  have  a  protector  when  he  should  be 
taken  from  her.  His  health  had  been  failing  for  some 
time,  and  he  feared  that  his  allotted  days  upon  earth  were 
few.  He  had  studiously  concealed  this  from  Emily,  as 
he  could  not  bear  to  cast  a  shade  over  her  happiness. 
He  felt  that  in  giving  up  his  idolized  daughter  to  the 
guardianship  of  Mr.  Harcourt,  that  he  would  appreciate 
the  rich  treasure  entrusted  to  him,  and  watch  over  her 
with  a  tenderness  equal  to  his  own. 

Emily  was  unwilling  to  fix  on  the  early  day  named  by 
her  lover  for  their  union,  until  she  gained  her  father's 
consent  to  reside  with  them,  for  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  leaving  him  alone  at  Elmwood.  This  beauti- 
ful spot  became  dearer  to  her  as  the  period  drew  near 
when  she  must  bid  it  farewell.  She  wandered  over  its 
green  meadows  and  through  its  romantic  woods,  whose 
foliage  was  daily  brightening  with  rich  autumnal  hues, 
and  wished  that  the  home  of  her  youth  could  also  be  the 
home  of  her  wedded  life. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  lovely  month  of  October,  Emily 
exchanged  the  quiet  scenes  of  Elmwood,  for  the  stir  and 
tumult  of  a  crowded  city.  But  her  husband  and  her 
father  were  with  her,  and  the  beautiful  bride  had  nothing 
to  regret.  The  estimation  in  which  the  character  and 
talents  of  Mr.  Harcourt  were  held,  was  a  source  of  grate- 
ful feeling  to  Emily,  and  she  felt  proud  in  being  the  wife 
of  one  whom  all  delighted  to  honor.  But  her  happiness 
was  soon  overshadowed  by  the  sudden  illness  of  her 
beloved  father,  and  in  less  than  two  months  after  her 
marriage  she  stood  by  the  bedside  of  her  dying  parent. 
This  agonizing  trial  was  the  first  she  had  ever  borne,  her 
first  experience  of  life's  bitter  sorrows.  Her  husband  did 
all  that  he  could  to  counsel  her  in  her  grief,  but  it  was  a 
long  time  before  she  recovered  from  the  effects  of  this 
unexpected  and  overwhelming  affliction. 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  75 

Mr.  Harcourt  loved  his  young  and  gentle  wife,  but  he 
never  could  be  to  Emily  all  that  her  father  had  been. 
He  was  an  only  son  and  had  been  the  sole  object  of  atten- 
tion to  his  mother  and  sisters.  He  was  accustomed  to 
have  every  thing  arranged  for  him  according  to  his  own 
fastidious  tastes,  without  even  having  the  necessity  of 
expressing  his  wishes;  and  he  naturally  expected  the 
same  from  his  wife,  forgetting  the  manner  in  which  she 
had  been  reared  by  her  fond  but  too  indulgent  father. 

Emily  was  wholly  unprepared  for  the  duties  of  married 
life,  and  knew  not  how  much  was  expected  from  a  wife 
and  the  mistress  of  a  family.  While  she  was  suffering 
from  the  recent  loss  of  her  devoted  father,  Mr.  Harcourt 
forebore  to  remind  her  of  her  failures,  but  his  disposition 
was  naturally  irritable,  and  at  times  he  could  not  repress 
an  impatient  remark,  which  he  speedily  endeavored  to 
atone  for,  when  he  saw  the  pain  it  caused  her. 

In  presiding  over  the  well-regulated  establishment  at 
Elmwood  she  had  found  no  difficulty,  for  with  her  father's 
old  family  servants  every  thing  proceeded  in  quiet  and 
order.  Accustomed  to  the  implicit  obedience  of  numer- 
ous and  faithfully  attached  attendants  in  her  youthful 
home,  she  was  wholly  unfitted  to  contend  with  the  im- 
pertinence and  inefficiency  of  hired  menials.  In  order 
to  produce  neatness  and  regularity  in  the  daily  routine  of 
her  husband's  household,  she  knew  not  how  much  was 
necessary,  what  vigilant  attention  and  what -unremitting 
superintendence  in  every  department.  She  endeavored 
to  do  her  best,  but  fell  short  of  what  was  expected  from 
her.  A  man  expects  to  find  a  helpmeet  in  his  wife,  and 
it  is  proper  he  should  do  so,  but  in  making  his  selection 
he  is  seldom  guided  by  those  qualities  which  would  en- 
sure his  anticipations.  The  graces  of  person,  manner  or 
intellect  win  his  regard,  and  he  imagines  the  household 
virtues  will  come  when  they  are  needed,  not  knowing 
that  unless  they  are  previously  practiced,  nothing  but 
years  of  painful  experience  can  teach  them. 


76  EMILY    HOWARD,    OR   THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

One  day  Mr.  Harcourt  brought  home  with  him  a  friend 
to  dinner.  Emily  made  the  necessary  arrangements  and 
gave  her  orders  to  the  servants,  hut  upon  taking  her  seat 
at  the  table,  she  saw  that  through  inadvertence  something 
had  been  neglected.  Mr.  Harcourt  instantly  noticed  the 
omission,  and  in  giving  his  directions  to  the  waiter  his 
wife  saw  the  displeasure  expressed  in  his  countenance. 
She  endeavored  to  conceal  her  agitation,  when  her  hus- 
band's eye,  as  it  met  hers,  showed  that  he  considered  the 
fault  to  be  that  of  the  mistress  rather  than  the  servant. 
When  this  painful  meal  was  over,  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
address  her  unnoticed  by  his  friend,  he  said,  "  Hencefor- 
ward when  I  bring  home  a  friend,  I  perceive  it  will  be 
necessary  for  me  to  leave  my  business  earlier  than  usual, 
in  order  to  avoid  the  mortification  of  an  ill-arranged  ta- 
ble." Poor  Emily  was  cut  to  the  heart,  she  hastily  re- 
treated to  her  chamber  and  gave  vent  to  her  wounded 
feelings.  She  thought  of  her  father's  tenderness,  and 
wept  tears  of  bitterness  as  she  said,  "  1  never  heard  a 
harsh  word  from  him.  Oh  my  father,  my  father,  I  never 
shall  meet  in  this  world  a  love  as  devoted  as  thine,  would 
that  I  were  sleeping  in  the  grave  with  thee,  for  my  hus- 
band does  not  love  me  or  he  could  not  have  spoken  thus !  " 

This  incident  may  appear  too  trivial  to  cause  such 
suffering,  but  the  slightest  reproof  from  one  we  love,  is  a 
barbed  arrow  that  rankles  deeply  in  the  heart.  These 
things  may  appear  trifles  to  others,  but  they  are  sad  trials 
to  the  young-  and  inexperienced,  and  many  a  woman's 
spirit  has  been  crushed  by  their  frequent  recurrence. 
Every  hasty  expression  of  irritated  feeling  uttered  by  Mr. 
Harcourt,  which  by  him  was  forgotten  as  soon  as  spoken, 
sank  deeply,  one  by  one,  into  Emily's  heart,  until  at  last 
the  painful  thought  that  her  husband  no  longer  loved  her, 
brooded  darkly  over  her  spirit.  Sometimes  she  would 
feel  as  if  she  could  go  to  him,  and  tell  him  her  sufferings, 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE     WIFE.  77 

and  breathe  unto  him  this  harassing  suspicion,  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  re-assure  her  of  his  love  and  unchanged 
affection,  but  woman's  pride  withheld  her.  "  No  !  no  !  I 
cannot,"  she  would  mentally  exclaim,  "  he  cannot  under- 
stand my  feelings,  he  will  ridicule  them  as  childish  fol- 
lies. I  can  bear  a  hasty  reproof  far  better  than  cold, 
withering  ridicule.  I  will  bury  my  sorrows  in  my  own 
wretched  heart,  and  not  even  my  husband's  eye  shall 
witness  them."  A  settled  gloom  hung  over  her,  and  she 
endeavored  to  conceal  it  when  in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Harcourt,  by  a  forced  gayety  or  an  assumed  indifference. 
She  still  fondly  loved  her  husband,  and  tried  to  fulfill  his 
wishes  in  every  thing,  yet  it  was  without  the  slightest 
hope  of  success. 

The  bright  visions  of  domestic  bliss  that  she  had  often 
so  fondly  pictured  before  her  marriage,  came  thronging 
back  upon  her  memory,  and  she  bitterly  felt  the  contrast 
of  the  reality.  She  recalled  the  lover-like  devotion  she 
expected  to  find  in  her  husband,  the  tender  solicitude  he 
would  express  for  her  in  her  slightest  indisposition,  his 
unvarying  kindness  and  assiduous  care  in  ministering  to 
her  happiness,  and  then  thought  how  fondly  she  idolized 
him,  and  all  that  she  would  have  done  and  suffered  for  his 
sake,  if  he  had  been  less  exacting  and  more  lenient. 
"  And  yet,"  she  would  say,  "  I  love  him  still !  would  that 
my  heart  could  grow  cold  towards  him,  then  the  pangs  I 
now  endure  would  be  unfelt.  I  dread  to  look  forward  to 
the  future,  since  the  first  year  of  our  wedded  life  has 
brought  so  much  unhappiness. "  The  desponding  thoughts 
and  gloomy  views  that  continually  haunted  her  imagina- 
tion, were  as  far  from  truth,  as  the  cloud-built  structures 
of  prospective  bliss  that  floated  before  her  youthful  fancy. 
And  she  was  still  the  dupe  of  a  melancholy  self-delusion, 
which  prevented  her  from  appreciating  the  unchanged 
affection  of  her  husband,  notwithstanding  his  transient 
7* 


78  EMILY    HOWARD,  OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

irritability,  which,  in  a  truer  estimate  of  human  life,  would 
have  been  forgiven  and  forgotten. 

It  has  frequently  been  said  by  the  experienced,  that  the 
first  year  of  marriage  is  generally  the  most  unhappy. 
This  sounds  strangely  to  the  young,  and  they  refuse  to 
give  it  credence.  But  all  will  find  it  true,  save  those 
whose  knowledge  of  life  and  human  nature  have  taught 
them  to  expect  faults  and  imperfections  in  their  fellow 
creatures,  and  to  remember  that  cares  and  sorrows  will 
sometimes  cross  their  path  in  every  situation  in  which 
they  may  be  placed.  In  the  happiest  union,  there  is 
much  to  be  learned  and  unlearned,  many  occasions  to 
bear  and  forbear.  There  is  many  an  obstacle  to  be  passed 
before  the  deepening  current  of  conjugal  affection  can 
flow  on,  with  the  uninterrupted  tranquillity  of  the  well- 
tried  love  of  years.  There  are  many  efforts  to  be  made 
in  self-government,  much  to  be  given  up  on  both  sides  by 
the  wedded  pair  before  even  love,  all  powerful  as  it  is, 
can  really  make  them  one.  Emily  was  passing  through 
this  trying  ordeal,  it  was  her  first  awakening  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  its  reality,  and  she  already  began  to  feel 
that  she  too  might  have  to  share  the  blame  of  her  own 
misery. 

Mr.  Harcourt  saw  that  she  was  altered,  but  was  uncon- 
scious of  the  cause.  It  grieved  him  to  see  the  gloom 
that  saddened  her  countenance,  when  she  knew  not  he 
was  looking  on  her.  As  he  saw  she  tried  to  hide  it  from 
him,  he  instinctively  forbore  to  notice  it,  hoping  it  would 
soon  pass  away.  But  on  coming  home  one  day  earlier 
than  usual,  he  entered  unexpectedly  into  her  chamber, 
and  found  her  in  tears.  He  tenderly  took  her  hand  in 
his,  and  said,  "  Tell  me  my  dearest  wife,  what  is  it  that 
makes  you  unhappy?  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  thus." 
Emily  struggled  to  conceal  her  emotion,  and  made  an 
^ineffectual  attempt  to  appear  cheerful.  He  shook  his 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR   THE    GENTLE   WIFE.  79 

head  mournfully,  saying,  "  No  !  my  own  Emily,  this  cruel 
reserve  must  not  be  continued,  there  is  something  that 
weighs  down  your  spirits,  then  why  do  you  hide  it  from 
your  husband — then  tell  me,  my  loved  one,  what  is  it 
that  depresses  you  ?"  He  folded  his  arms  around  her, 
poor  Emily  leaned  her  head  on  his  bosom,  and  wept  as 
if  her  heart  was  breaking.  "  I  feared  you  no  longer 
loved  me,"  she  faltered.  "  Not  love  you,  my  wife,  how 
could  you  think  thus,  even  for  a  moment,  you,  my  own 
idolized  Emily,  the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved — what 
could  have  given  rise  to  such  an  illusion  ?"  "  You 
seemed  so  often  displeased  with  me,  that  I  despaired  of 
becoming  what  you  wished.  I  thought  you  regretted 
your  choice."  "I  see  it  all  now,"  he  exclaimed,  " it  is 
my  impatience  and  irritability  that  has  caused  all  this 
suffering.  Yes !  I  have  been  cruel,  unkind,  will  you 
forgive  me  ?"  His  eyes  filled  and  his  lips  quivered,  as 
he  pressed  her  to  his  .heart,  and  entreated  her  to  forget 
all  that  he  had  thoughtlessly  uttered.  "  I  must  have  been 
a  brute,  not  to  have  remembered  the  tenderness  and 
indulgence  with  which  you  were  cherished  by  your  father, 
and  that  you  were  unable  to  perform  the  duties  I  have  so 
unreasonably  expected  from  you.  Forgive  me,  my  own 
love,  and  I  trust  you  shall  never  again  have  cause  to 
suffer  all  that  I  have  so  heedlessly  inflicted."  "You 
have  no  need  to  ask  my  forgiveness,  my  husband,  it  is  I, 
who  should  entreat  yours.  Once  I  thought  you  harsh 
and  exacting,  but  I  have  seen  my  own  deficiencies,  and 
acquit  you  of  injustice.  I  wronged  you  in  becoming 
your  wife,  when  I  was  so  unfitted  for  the  station.  But  I 
was  unconscious  of  this  unfitness,  or  I  would- never  have 
taken  advantage  of  your  affection,  by  burthening  you 
with  a  helpless  charge." 

"  Talk  not  thus,  mv  Emily,  you  have  done  what  you 
could,  and  I  now  see  my  rashness  and  folly— instead  of 

" 


80  EMILY    HOWARD,   OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

appreciating  your  exertions,  I  suffered  some  little  trifle 
that  was  forgotten,  to  blind  me  to  all  you  so  faithfully 
performed.  And  should  I  ever  again  so  far  forget  what 
is  due  to  you  by  giving  expression  to  my  irritable  tem- 
per, —  chide  me  for  my  fault,  but  never,  Oh  !  never  again 
think  that  your  husband  loves  you  the  less." 

What  an  auspicious  event  was  this,  upon  the  future 
happiness  of  both  husband  and  wife,  —  this  mutual  confes- 
sion of  mutual  errors,  —  their  united  resolutions  to  sin  no 
more  against  each  other  !  How  many  a  wedded  pair  for 
the  want  of  this  free  interchange  of  harbored  thoughts 
and  feelings,  this  candid  avowal  of  real,  or  imaginary 
grievances,  have  gone  on  for  years,  in  the  cold  reserve  of 
wounded  affections,  or  the  unwise  determinations  of 
wounded  pride,  until  their  hearts  have  become  wholly 
estranged,  and  the  devoted  love  that  would  have  borne 
each  other  up  under  every  trial,  has  departed  from  their 
bosoms,  leaving  them  to  a  mutual  indifference  which 
makes  every  affliction  doubly  grievous,  and  presses  an 
added  weight  of  sorrow  upon  the  spirit  that  is  almost 
crushed  beneath  its  burden.  Happy  indeed,  was  it  for 
Mr.  Harcourt  and  his  Emily,  that  this  confession  came 
so  soon  —  before  either  of  them  had  become  burdened 
under  a  longer  continuance  of  mutual  reserve  —  and  while 
their  hearts  were  yet  susceptible  of  being  thrilled  with 
emotion  by  the  remembrance  of  their  early  love. 

Emily's  cheerfulness  again  returned,  after  having  un- 
burthened  the  sorrow  that  oppressed  her,  and  after  hav- 
ing received  the  sweet  assurance  that  she  was  still  ten- 
derly loved  by  her  husband.  And,  Oh  !  with  what  a 
different  spirit  she  now  entered  upon  her  duties.  Her 
energies,  that  had  so  long  been  paralyzed  by  despondency, 
awakened  into  fresh  vigor,  and  her  labors  were  all  light- 
ened by  the  cheering  hope  that  her  exertions  would  be 
felt  by  her  husband,  and  that  her  unintentional  failures 


EMILY    HOWARD,    OR   THE    GENTLE    WIFE.  81 

would  be  met  by  his  kind  forbearance. — His  approving 
smile  was  the  rich  reward  that  strengthened  her  when 
weary,  and  sweetened  every  toil. 

For  his  dear  Emily's  sake,  Mr.  Harcourt  exercised  a 
self-control  he  had  never  before  exerted,  and  by  gratefully 
acknowledging  her  efforts,  he  aided  her  in  the  attempt  to 
discharge  her  varied  duties.  Whenever  he  noticed  any 
omission,  instead  of  the  hasty  expressions  he  once  un- 
guardedly permitted  to  escape  him,  he  gently  pointed 
them  out  to  her,  and  she  received  his  advice  as  kindly  as 
it  was  intended.  No  longer  disheartened  by  the  fear  of 
displeasing  him,  his  forbearance  stimulated  her  to  activ- 
ity, and  enabled  her  to  attain  a  capacity  for  usefulness,  of 
which  he  once  thought  her  incapable.  She  gradually 
overcame  the  enervating  effects  of  her  Father's  indulgent 
training,  and  became  so  efficient  as  a  wife  and  the  mis- 
tress of  a  family,  that  her  husband  would  often  playfully 
say,  "  that  he  would  match  his  southern  wife  against  any 
daughter  of  New-England." 

When  his  dear  wife's  domestic  cares  were  increased 
by  the  charge  of  a  lovely  infant,  he  no  longer  expected 
the  same  exclusive  attention  to  her  household.  In  the 
days  of  its  helpless  infancy  he  was  conscious  it  required 
the  unremitting  devotion  of  its  mother ;  he  knew  that 
every  other  duty  could  be  better  entrusted  to  others  than 
this,  and  was  fully  satisfied  that  in  every  thing  she  did 
what  she  could. 

The  lively  little  Emily  inherited  its  mother's  beauty, 
and  one  day  when  the  delighted  father  was  tracing  the 
striking  resemblance,  his  wife  said  to  him,  "  in  one  respect 
she  shall  never  resemble  me,  if  I  am  spared  to  rear  her 
into  womanhood.  My  chief  endeavor  shall  be  to  teach 
her  the  duties  of  her  sex  and  station,  to  lead  her  to  form 
a  rational  estimate  of  what  woman  is  expected  to  be,  that 
she  may  be  saved  from  the  suffering,  that  my  own  ignor- 
ance and  unconsciousness,  have  forced  me  to  endure." 


82  EMILY    HOWARD,    OR    THE    GENTLE    WIFE. 

"  If  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as  her  mother,  and  gains 
her  knowledge  and  practice  of  domestic  duties  as  readily, 
even  if  it  be  after  her  marriage,  her  husband  will  have 
every  reason  to  be  fully  satisfied." 

The  gentle  wife  smiled  sadly  as  she  replied,  "  In  this, 
my  husband,  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  for  I  still  daily  feel 
my  limited  capacity  when  I  see  what  other  women  can 
do  without  the  least  appearance  of  effort.  And  even  the 
little  I  have  gained,  none  but  my  own  heart  knows,  how 
painfully  it  has  been  purchased.  The  season  of  girlhood 
is  the  only  period  of  preparation  for  the  duties  of  married 
life,  and  she  who  madly  rushes  upon  its  untried  respon- 
sibilities, while  unfitted  for  the  task,  may  tremble  for  the 
fair  fabric  of  domestic  bliss,  unless  she  is  so  happy  as  to 
meet  a  husband  like  mine,  whose  affection  will  as  soon 
teach  him  to  appreciate  her  exertions  and  to  pardon  her 
failures." 


CHAPTER     VI. 

AMANDA       MALVINA      BURTON,        OR       FASHION- 
ABLE     AMBITION. 

Is  not  Fashion  a  noble  divinity  to  possess  such  zealous  adherents  ? — 
a  pititful  lackey-like  creature  which  struts  through  one  country  with  the 
cast  off  finery  of  another.— DEVEREUX. 

DURING  one  of  the  college  vacations,  I  left  Glenwood 
cottage  with  my  adopted  brothers,  to  make  a  long  contem- 
plated visit  to  the  falls  of  Niagara.  On  reaching  New 
York,  we  remained  several  days  with  my  old  friend 
Emily  Harcourt,  and  found  her  cheerfully  devoting  her- 
self to  the  duties  of  a  wife  and  mother,  occasionally  ming- 
ling in  the  social  parties  of  her  husband's  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. The  society  into  which  Mr.  Harcourt  had 
introduced  his  wife,  was  refined  and  intellectual,  and  their 
style  of  living  was  characterized  by  a  tasteful  elegance, 
devoid  of  every  thing  like  glitter,  or  ostentation.  Mr. 
Harcourt  had  a  strong  prejudice  against  what  are  called 
"  fashionable  people,"  and,  indeed,  the  orbit  in  which  he 
and  Emily  moved,  seemed  to  be  separate  and  distinct  from 
that  of  the  fashionable  world,  for  there  was  no  affinity  in 
their  enjoyments  or  pursuits. 

While  staying  with  my  friend,  I  left  the  house  one 
morning,  attended  by  Edward  and  Charles,  to  visit  with 
them  some  of  the  public  buildings.  As  we'iwere  stand- 
ing before  a  church  in  Broadway,  and  I  was  pointing  out 
to  them  some  of  the  peculiarities  in  its  Gothic  style  of 
architecture,  a  fashionably  dressed  female  advanced  to- 
wards us  with  hastening  steps  and  exclaimed,  "  Is  not 
this  Ellen  Maitland  ?"  I  immediately  recognized  her  as 
Amanda  Malvina  Burton,  and  we  were  mutually  pleased 
with  our  unexpected  meeting.  She  insisted  on  our  re- 


84  AMANDA    MALVINA    BURTON. 

taming  home  with  her,  which  she  said  was  but  a  short 
distance.  Accepting  her  invitation,  we  were  soon  after 
ushered  into  a  lofty  mansion,  furnished  in  all  the  gor- 
geousness  of  wealth  and  luxury.  When  we  entered  the 
drawing  room,  there  sat  the  veritable  Mrs.  Burton,  upon 
a  crimson  velvet  ottoman,  her  feet  resting  on  a  rich  foot- 
stool, and  the  ample  folds  of  her  purple  satin  dress  cover- 
ing a  goodly  space  of  the  imperial  carpet.  Two  or  three 
visitors  were  seated  with  her,  engaged  in  an  animated 
conversation  upon  an  evening  party  they  had  lately  at- 
tended. Our  entrance  caused  a  temporary  interruption, 
which  however,  was  but  of  few  moment's  duration. 

The  tone  of  delight  with  which  Amanda  announced 
our  names  to  her  mother,  found  no  echo  in  the  heart  of 
Mrs.  Burton,  for  there  was  an  evident  flurry  and  agita- 
tion as  she  spoke,  which  I  thought  arose  from  the  fear 
that  her  former  situation  might  be  accidentally  reverted 
to.  She  speedily  resumed  the  subject,  upon  which  her 
visitors  were  speaking  when  we  entered,  saying  "  were 
you  not  surprised  Mrs.  Liston,  to  meet  the  Miss  Stan- 
ley's there  ?  I  was  not  before  aware  they  visited  among 
fashionable  people — indeed  it  was  quite  a  mixed  assem- 
blage, do  you  not  think  so  ?"  "  It  was  certainly,  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton, but  you  know  that  Mrs.  Payton  is  never  very  exclu- 
sive in  her  invitations,  for  she  never  omits  any  one 
whom  she  thinks  has  the  slightest  claim  on  her  attention. 
The  Miss  Stanleys  it  is  true  are  only  the  daughters  of 
her  husband  s  clerk,  but  although  the  family  is  now  in 
reduced  circumstances,  Mr.  Stanley  was  a  few  years 
ago  one  of  our  first  merchants." 

"  Indeed  !  I  was  not  aware  of  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton, "  but  do  you  not  think  it  is  a  folly  in  them  to  appear 
in  the  company  of  those,  who  cannot  regard  them  as 
equals,  now  that  they  do  not  keep  up,  at  least,  the  ap- 
pearance of  style." 


AMANDA   MALVINA   BURTON.  86 

A  young  lady  who  appeared  to  be  rather  envious  of 
the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Miss  Stanleys,  remarked 
"  did  you  riot  observe  how  little  attention  they  received, 
notwithstanding  Mrs.  Payton's  endeavors  to  bring  them 
into  notice.  The  gentlemen  to  whom  she  introduced 
them,  could  not  have  found  their  society  very  attractive, 
for  they  left  them  as  soon  as  they  could,  to  pay  their 
devoirs  to  more  fashionable  women. 

There  was  one  gentleman,  however,  "  observed  ano- 
ther lady,"  whose  attentions  were  not  quite  so  transient  as 
those  you  may  have  happened  to  notice.  Mr.  Norton, 
the  cousin  of  the  celebrated  Mr.  Harcourt.  He  was  with 
them  nearly  the  whole  evening.  Indeed,  it  is  rumored 
that  he  is  addressing  one  of  these  accomplished  sisters." 

"  The  proud  and  wealthy  Mr.  Norton,  who  has  just 
returned  from  Europe,"  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  "  im- 
possible !  he  might  have  amused  himself  by  an  evening's 
flirtation,  but  he  never  could  stoop  to  marry  one  of 
them." 

Although  no  part  of  the  conversation  had  been  ad- 
dressed to  me,  yet  I  could  not  help  intruding  a  remark, 
and  said,  "  I  have  frequently  met  the  Miss  Stanleys  at 
Mrs.  Harcourt's,  and  they  are  considered  there  as  young 
ladies  whom  any  man  might  be  proud  to  win,  and  the 
eldest  is  spoken  of  as  the  future  wife  of  Mr.  Norton." 

As  soon  as  I  mentioned  Mrs.  Harcourt's  name,  there 
was  an  evident  change  in  the  bearing  of  Mrs.  Burton's 
visiters  towards  me.  Previous  to  this,  they  seemed  to 
have  a  genteel  unconsciousness  of  my  presence — so 
much  for  the  influence  of  a  name  ! 

One  of  the  ladies  observed,  "  Mrs.  Harcourt  is  a 
charming  woman,  what  a  pity  it  is,  that  one  whose 
beauty  and  grace  are  so  well  calculated  to  adorn  any  cir- 
cle, should  keep  herself  so  much  at  home — but  I  suppose 
it  is  owing  to  her  husband,  who  though  belonging  to  one 
of  our  first  families,  is  rather  antiquated  in  his  notions." 
8 


86  AMANDA    MALVINA    BURTON. 

"  Emily  was  such  a  belle,"  said  Amanda,  "  that  I 
wonder  how  she  can  be  contented  to  shine  only  upon  her 
own  fireside." 

"  My  friend,"  I  replied,  "  consults  her  own  taste,  in 
living  as  she  does.  The  love  and  admiration  of  her 
husband,  and  the  esteem  and  attachment  of  his  friends 
are  all  that  she  desires." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  at  all  necessary,"  said  one  of  the 
married  ladies,  "  that  a  woman  should  become  a  slave  to 
her  household  when  she  becomes  a  wife.  It  is  for  this, 
that  we  are  so  often  ridiculed  by  foreigners,  for  they  say 
that  in  this  country  a  female  is  buried  in  obscurity  as 
soon  as  she  marries;  while  in  Europe,  married  women 
are  often  the  most  attractive  ornaments  of  fashionable 
society." 

"  It  is  a  distinction  of  which  we  have  reason  to  be 
proud,"  I  answered,  "  and  I  trust  that  from  the  increasing 
intelligence  and  moral  worth  of  the  female  sex  in  every 
part  of  the  civilized  world,  that  this  peculiarity  will  not 
long  be  considered,  an  American  one,  only.  For  how- 
ever ready  we  may  be  to  imitate  foreign  customs  in  other 
respects,  in  domestic  life  we  should  surely  be  the  copy, 
and  not  the  copyists." 

When  I  was  left  alone  with  Mrs.  Burton  and  Amanda, 
I  could  not  help  taking  a  rapid  survey  of  the  gorgeous 
drawing-room,  and  contrasting  the  situation  of  the  fashion- 
able Mrs.  Burton  of  New  York,  with  the  obsequious 
Mrs.  Burton/  behind  the  counter  of  a  village  shop.  I 
was  surprised  at  the  facility  with  which  she  had  taken 
the  conventional  airs  and  graces  of  fashionable  society, 
for  no  one  would  have  imagined  that  she  had  not  been 
born  and  bred  amidst  its  luxurious  elegancies.  The 
queenly  air  of  Amanda  excited  no  wonder,  for  her  im- 
aginary consequence  when  but  the  daughter  of  our 
village  storekeeper,  was  of  course  increased  when  she 


AMANDA    MALVINA   BURTON.  87 

found  herself  among  the  elite  of  fashion  in  New  York. 
The  native  goodness  of  her  heart  seemed  to  have  been 
still  left  unseared,  from  the  affectionate  warmth  with 
which  she  reverted  to  Mrs.  Norville.  She  gave  a  pressing 
invitation  to  the  boys  and  myself,  to  spend  the  day  with 
her  ;  but  my  old  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Burton  seemed 
to  recall  so  many  mortifying  reminiscences,  that  I 
thought  best  to  decline  it. 

After  we  left  them,  I  could  not  help  musing  on  the 
rotations  of  Fortune's  wheel,  that  trite  but  illustrative 
metaphor  of  the  frequent  revolutions  that  are  continually 
taking  place  in  society.  The  rise  and  fall  of  families, 
the  rapid  changes  from  poverty  to  riches,  from  wealth  to 
penury,  are  more  striking  in  our  country  than  any  other; 
for  in  no  other  are  found  such  opportunities  for  the 
quick  accumulation,  or  the  sudden  reduction  of  fortunes. 
The  desire  of  gain,  is  the  master  passion  that  animates 
and  directs  the  energies  of  our  people,  and  the  most  am- 
ple facilities  for  its  gratification  are  found  in  our  financial 
operations,  with  their  tempting  credit  system  ;  by  which 
the  small  capitalist  is  enabled  to  maintain  a  competition 
with  the  largest,  in  extending  his  commercial  transac- 
tions. The  slow,  yet  sure  gains  of  our  forefathers,  are 
abandoned  for  wild  speculation,  as  the  former  are  not 
sufficiently  exciting  to  the  gambling  spirit  of  modern 
merchandise.  The  possible  success  is  held  before  the 
view,  while  no  prudent  preparation  is  made  for  the  prob- 
able loss,  and  the  ruin  of  others  who  may  be  involved 
with  them,  is  not  thought  worthy  of  consideration. 
Honor,  justice,  and  probity  are  thrust  aside,  as  impeding 
obstacles,  and  the  desirableness  of  the  end,  renders  it  an 
easy  matter  to  justify  the  means  taken  to  secure  it. 

The  success  of  Mr.  Burton  was  almost  unexampled, 
even  in  a  period  of  suddenly  accumulated  fortunes. 
In  the  eyes  of  others,  his  Midas-like  touch  turned 


00  AMANDA    MALVINA    BURTON. 

every  thing  into  gold;  arid  he  had  become  so  intoxicated 
with  his  first  winnings  in  the  game  of  mercantile  specu- 
lation, that  he  continued  to  pursue  it  as  an  absorbing 
passion.  The  regular  daily  profits  of  his  village  store, 
to  which  he  owed  the  snug  capital  which  first  enabled 
him  to  get  into  good  credit  in  a  more  extended  sphere, 
were  contemptuously  reflected  upon,  as  having  been  too 
trifling  for  a  man  of  his  business  talents.  With  these 
united  powers  of  capital  and  credit,  he  was  soon  able  to 
place  his  wife  and  daughter  in  a  richly  furnished  man- 
sion, and  to  maintain  them  in  a  style  of  living  equal  to 
their  ambition. 

Mrs.  Burton  and  Amanda  were  equally  successful  in 
their  own  sphere  of  operations, — that  of  attaining  a  place 
in  fashionable  society.  Neither  of  them  were  very 
scrupulous  as  to  the  means  they  used  in  gaining  access 
to  the  families  they  wished  to  visit,  nor  did  their  self- 
consequence,  and  self-complacency  permit  them  to  feel 
any  thing  as  an  intention  at  slight  or  repulse.  While 
the  name  was  an  unknown  one,  their  efforts  were  ridi- 
culed by  some,  and  considered  as  insufferably  presump- 
tuous by  others,  yet  they  moved  upward  step  by  step, 
into  general  notice,  until  no  one  thought  of  asking, 
"  who  is  Mrs.  Burton  ?"  and  they  were  then  quietly  per- 
mitted to  take  a  high  station  in  the  circle  of  fashion. 

Although  Mr.  Harcourt  and  Emily  lived  apart  from 
the  fashionable  world,  yet  rumors  from  the  "  great 
Babel"  sometimes  reached  them  through  the  medium  of 
occasional  visitors.  Emily  told  me  she  heard  of  the 
wealthy  Mrs.  Burton,  her  splendid  entertainments,  and 
her  stylish  equipage  and  of  her  daughter  Miss  Burton 
who  created  quite  a  sensation  among  fortune-hunters  as 
the  sole  heiress  of  her  father's  millions,  but  had  no  idea 
that  it  was  the  Burtons,  who  lived  in  the  village  near 
Oakwood,  until  she  one  day  met  with  Amanda  at  a 
fashionable  store  in  Broadway. 


AMANDA   MALVINA   BURTON.  89 

The  morning  before  I  left  Mr.  Harcourt's,  to  proceed 
on  our  summer  tour,  two  or  three  young  ladies  called  to 
see  Emily. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  Mrs.  Harcourt  ?"  was  the 
greeting  salutation  of  one  of  them,  as  soon  as  Emily 
entered  the  room. 

"  There  is  so  much  that  is  new  and  strange  in  the 
flying  rumors  of  the  day,"  replied  Emily,  "  that  it  would 
require  a  better  memory  than  mine  to  keep  pace  with 
them.  But  what  news  do  you  allude  to  ?" 

"  It  is  currently  reported  that  Miss  Burton  has  made  a 
conquest  of  Lord  Merton,  and  that  he  visits  her  con- 
stantly. I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  Lord  Merton  ?" 

"  If  I  have,"  said  Emily,  "  I  have  forgotten  it,  for  there 
are  so  many  titled  foreigners  that  create  a  temporary  stir, 
as  they  come  and  go,  among  us,  that  their  names  make 
but  little  impression." 

"  Lord  Merton  has  been  here  several  weeks,  and  is 
quite  the  lion  of  the  day  in  the  fashionable  world.  He 
is  on  a  tour  through  the  United  States,  and  is  said  to  be 
a  man  of  immense  wealth.  There  have  been  many 
sieges  laid,  in  order  to  captivate  him,  and  if  Miss  Burton 
has  been  the  fortunate  heroine,  she  will  be  quite  envied 
by  those  whom  she  has  out-generaled." 

After  they  had  gone,  my  friend  and  I  recalled  many 
of  Amanda's  ambitious  visions,  and  pictured  to  ourselves 
the  gratification  of  the  mother  and  daughter,  should  the 
rumor  prove  to  be  founded  in  truth. 

After  our  return  from  Niagara,  the  engagement  of 
Amanda  and  Lord  Merton  was  the  favorite  topic  of  con- 
versation in  fashionable  society.  Every  thing  that  Miss 
Burton  said  or  did  was  invested  with  additional  conse- 
quence ;  and  in  the  morning  promenade,  or  at  the  even- 
ing soirees,  she  was  the  "observed  of  all  observers." 
And  many  a  fair  belle  sighed  that  there  were  not  more 


90  AMANDA   MALVINA   BURTON. 

Lord  Merlon's  to  be  won.  In  that  excessive  admiration 
of  foreign  manners,  foreign  fashions  and  foreign  customs, 
which  is  found  among  the  circles  of  ton,  foreign  hus- 
bands, of  course,  claim  the  greatest  share.  Much  as  our 
country  is  sometimes  lauded  by  its  sons  and  daughters, 
yet  it  would  seem  as  if  nothing  that  is  elegant,  tasteful, 
or  refined,  nothing  that  is  good  or  great  can  be  wholly 
indigenous.  And  if  it  should  happen  to  be  first  dis- 
covered here,  foreign  culture  is  needed  to  bring  it  to 
perfection. 

Europe  is  at  present  the  Mecca  of  all  classes  of  our 
tourists.  The  painter,  or  sculptor,  the  professional  or 
scientific  man,  cannot  attain  eminence,  unless  by  the 
ctudy  of  transatlantic  models,  or  by  the  instruction  of 
transatlantic  teachers.  But  were  not  all  the  great 
masters  in  the  arts,  taught  in  the  school  of  nature;  then 
would  it  not  be  as  profitable  to  study  the  living  original 
more,  and  the  mere  mannerism  of  its  copies  less  ?  And 
if  one  half  of  the  sums  lavished  upon  European  profes- 
sors were  employed  in  remunerating  the  mental  labors 
and  research  of  our  own  men  of  science,  now  paralyzed 
into  inaction  by  a  want  of  support,  there  would  surely  be 
little  need  of  foreign  instructors.  Rich  and  independent 
as  we  really  are,  or  ought  to  be  in  our  native  resources, 
yet  the  propensity  to  borrow  and  to  imitate  seems  to  be  a 
national  idiosyncrasy.  We  not  only  draw  upon  foreign 
fashions,  foreign  talent,  and  foreign  capital  to  contribute 
to  our  supposed  improvement,  but  we  also  feel  the  neces- 
sity of  sending  agents  to  an  absolute  monarchy  in 
Europe,  to  procure  a  system  of  popular  instruction  for 
the  children  of  a  republic.  The  devotees  of  fashionable 
world  have  become  for  many  years  past,  as  desirous  of 
taking  lessons  in  foreign  travel  as  the  scientific,  and 
American  society  is  reaping  the  full  benefit  of  that  ex- 
ample and  instruction,  they  are  enabled  to  give  after 


AMANDA   MALVINA   BURTON.  91 

their  return.  We  are  learning  to  rival  the  foreign  no- 
bility in  splendor  and  magnificence,  we  have  found  it 
desirable  to  turn  the  natural  season  for  repose,  into  the 
artificial  season  for  amusements,  and  are  attempting  the 
difficult  task  of  arranging  a  chart,  where  the  true  bound- 
ary lines  may  be  traced  which  separate  the  mechanic 
from  the  architect,  the  retail  trader  from  the  importer, 
and  the  teacher  from  the  professional  man.  They  have 
brought  to  us  the  Waltz,  and  the  Mazurka, — the  Fancy 
Ball  and  the  Tableaux  Vivants,  as  preparatory  lessons  to 
the  Masquerade,  and  the  Private  Theatrical.  They  have 
taught  us  to  estimate  the  "  Poetry  of  Motion"  far  higher 
than  any  other  species  of  Poetry  ;  and  to  give  far  greater 
encouragement  to  those  who  practice  it,  than  to  the  most 
gifted  Bard,  or  the  most  eloquent  orator.  Our  fashion- 
able travelers  have  been  so  apt  as  scholars,  and  so 
efficient  as  teachers,  that  we  are  in  danger  of  losing  all 
our  distinctive  character  as  republicans,  and  were  it  not 
for  the  healthful  counteraction  of  our  institutions,  we 
should  gradually  sink  into  all  the  corruptions  of  Euro- 
pean society. 

Mrs.  Burton  and  Amanda,  from  their  previously  im- 
bibed notions,  were  fit  subjects  for  the  prevailing  mania 
for  every  thing  foreign ;  and  it  soon  became  the  ruling 
passion,  after  they  had  gained  the  opportunity  of  gratify- 
ing it.  In  their  house,  their  style  of  living,  their  visiting, 
and  their  equipage,  every  thing  bore  the  impress  of  a 
second  hand  imitation  of  European  models.  And  in  their 
conversation,  they  continually  referred  to  what  was  the 
latest  fashion  in  England  or  France.  When  I  paid  my 
farewell  visit  to  the  future  Lady  Merton,  previous  to 
my  return  to  Glenwood,  I  asked  her  where  she  intended 
to  reside  after  her  marriage. 

She  replied,  "  in  London,  of  course,  for  Lord  Merton 
would  never  think  of  relinquishing  his  title  and  estate 


92  AMANDA   MALV1NA    BURTON. 

by  remaining  here.  I  have  long  wished  to  visit  Eng- 
land, but  I  scarcely  hoped  to  have  done  so,  under  so 
favorable  auspices  for  enjoying  the  best  society.  We 
are  to  leave  New  York  immediately  after  our  marriage, 
as  he  is  anxious  to  return  to  his  friends." 

I  saw  that  poor  Amanda's  brain  was  almost  turned  by 
the  anticipation  of  mingling  with  "  Lords  and  Ladies," 
of  whom  she  had  so  .  often  dreamed,  and  whose  society 
shone  to  her  as  a  prospective  Paradise,  of  bright  and 
blissful  enjoyment.  And  the  ambitious  Mrs.  Burton  was 
now  in  the  zenith  of  her  hopes  and  her  triumph.  The 
Court  of  St.  James,  the  Drawing-room,  and  the  Park, 
were  to  her  as  familiar  topics  as  Broadway  and  the 
Battery, — and  I  was  very  much  edified  by  her  second- 
hand descriptions  of  Lord  such-an-one's  splendid  estab- 
lishment, and  Duke  so-and-so's  magnificent  palace.  She 
recounted  the  different  articles  of  furniture  with  the 
minuteness  of  an  upholsterer,  and  could  tell  even  the 
cost  of  the  grates,  the  curtains,  and  the  carpeting. 
"  Americans  often  talk  of  their  splendidly  furnished 
rooms,"  said  she,  "  but  Lord  Merton  says  that  we  cannot 
form  the  faintest  idea  of  the  splendor  and  magnificence 
of  a  nobleman's  mansion."  I  am  trying  to  persuade  Mr. 
Burton  to  settle  his  business  here,  as  soon  as  Amanda  is 
married ;  and  to  establish  himself  in  London  as  a  banker, 
for  I  am  sure  that  life  in  England  is  worth  living  for, — 
do  you  not  think  so,  Mrs.  Stanford  ?" 

"  It  is  I  assure  you,"  replied  the  lady  addressed,  "  Al- 
though Mother  and  I  felt  reluctant  to  leave  America, 
when  Mr.  Stanford  first  established  himself  in  England, 
yet  since  we  have  known  what  it  is  to  live  there,  I  could 
not  exist  out  of  it,  for  there  are  elegancies  and  comfort  to 
be  found  there,  that  we  cannot  hope  to  meet  with  in  this 
country.  Indeed  we  have  become  decidedly  English  in 
OUT  tastes  and  habits,  and  it  will  seem  like  returning 


AMANDA   MALVINA    BURTON.  93 

home  again,  when  this  visit  to  our  American  relatives  is 
over — and  we  will  once  more  mingle  in  the  refined  and 
polished  society  to  which  we  have  become  accustomed." 
I  did  not  know  whether  pity,  or  contempt  was  the  more 
suitable  feeling,  as  I  listened  to  these  silly  encomiums 
on  English  life  and  manners,  and  to  the  disparaging  com- 
parisons made  by  Mrs.  Burton  and  her  visitor,  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  America, — as  though  conventional  etiquette, 
and  fastidiously  graduated  ceremonies,  were  preferable 
to  natural  grace  and  ease  in  social  intercourse,  and  to 
that  free  interchange  of  good  feeling  between  the  enter- 
tainer and  the  guest  which  distinguishes  true  American 
hospitality, — and  makes  a  far  more  attractive  board  than 
champagne,  silver  forks,  damask  napkins,  or  finger  bowls 
of  rose-water.  And  whenever  these  trifles  are  gravely 
magnified  into  affairs  of  the  greatest  importance,  it  is  as 
convincing  a  proof  of  innate  vulgarity,  as  to  tell  the 
prices  given  for  your  wine,  or  your  plate,  or  to  impress 
on  your  visitors  the  rare  merit  of  a  piece  of  statuary  or 
painting,  by  naming  the  large  sum  paid  for  it.  Anxious 
display  and  restless  pretension,  are  never  found  in  persons 
of  cultivated  taste  or  true  refinement.  After  my  return 
to  my  quiet  home  at  Glenwood,  and  I  again  mingled 
with  the  society  in  its  neighborhoods,  I  was  forcibly  struck 
by  the  contrast  between  its  genuine  hereditary  refine- 
ment and  the  apish,  affected  airs  of  gentility,  assumed  by 
the  suddenly  elevated  members  of  our  city  aristocracy. 
The  unostentatious  dignity  and  graceful  ease  of  the 
mothers  were  naturally  transmitted  to  the  daughters, 
whose  indigenous  manners  had  a  native  polish  which 
needed  not  the  varnish  and  gilding  of  European  imita- 
tions. Their  words  and  actions  sprung  forth  spontane- 
ously from  their  minds  and  hearts,  and  it  was  delightful 
to  see  again,  natural  characters  revealed  in  all  their 
beauty,  their  freshness  and  their  variety.  "  In  what  is 


94  AMANDA    MALV1NA    BURTON. 

called  the  world,"  says  a  late  writer,  "  it  would  seem  that 
there1  is  a  guillotine  established,  to  which  every  intellec- 
tual energy  is  fitted  by  lopping  off  every  germ  that  buds 
beyond  the  narrow  limits  assigned  as  the  modern  stand- 
ard. The  heart  is  forced  to  undergo  a  like  Procrustian 
operation ;  and  all  the  young  affections,  timid  respect 
and  blushing  reserve  which  would  seem  to  be  the  indi- 
genous growth  of  the  female  mind,  are  destroyed  with  as 
much  zeal  as  the  gardener  employs  in  restraining  the 
luxuriance  of  his  espaliers.  Dressed  to  one  common 
model  both  in  mind  and  body,  you  pass  from  one  autom- 
aton to  another,  in  the  city  drawing-room,  without  being 
conscious  that  you  change  your  place,  unless  by  the  va- 
riety of  the  glare  in  the  colors  that  surround  you.  These 
effigies  neither  see,  feel,  hear  nor  understand,  except  as 
machines  may  appear  to  do.  Likings,  dislikings,  looks, 
words  and  actions  are  all  artificial !"  How  faithfully  is 
the  above  picture  of  London  society,  copied  and  re-copied 
in  the  fashionable  society  of  our  cities,  and  in  this  respect 
we  have  been  most  successful  as  imitators.  And  to  ex- 
change society  like  this,  for  the  delightful  companionship 
of  my  Glenwood  neighbors,  was  like  passing  from  a  mo- 
tionless panorama  of  some  gaudy  spectacle,  to  the  fresh 
air,  the  diffused  fragrance,  and  the  waving  foliage  of  a 
picturesque  scene  in  nature. 

In  a  letter  from  Emily,  received  a  few  months  after  my 
leaving  New  York,  she  gave  me  a  description  of  the 
splendor  and  gayety  attendant  upon  Amanda  Burton's 
marriage  to  Lord  Merton,  and  in  concluding,  it  mentioned 
a  strange  rumor  respecting  Mr.  Burton's  business  trans- 
actions, which  she  said  might  prove  untrue,  but  feared 
there  was  some  foundation  which  gave  it  credit. 

A  few  weeks  afterward  the  following  letter  confirmed 
the  report. 

"  MY  DEAR  ELLEN  : 

"  The  rumor  to  which  my  last  letter  alluded,  is  now  con- 


AMANDA    MALVINA    BURTON.  95 

firmed.  Mr.  Burton  has  been  charged  with  several 
fraudulent  transactions,  which  explain  the  mystery  of  his 
suddenly  accumulated  wealth.  An  order  for  his  arrest 
was  issued  but  he  escaped  from  his  pursuers,  and  is  now 
voyaging  in  safety  upon  the  trackless  sea,  as  his  port 
of  destination  is  unknown.  Every  thing  that  he  left 
has  been  seized  by  his  creditors  and  poor  Mrs.  Burton 
is  reduced  to  penury.  Amanda  and  her  husband  had 
not  left  the  city  when  the  conduct  of  her  father  was  made 
known,  but  they  went  immediately  afterward,  and  it  is 
not  known  where  they  have  gone.  A  report  has  also 
been  circulated  that  Lord  Merton  was  only  a  false  title, 
assumed  for  the  purpose  of  winning  an  American  heiress, 
that  he  is  a  mere  English  adventurer  without  property, 
or  standing.  This,  however,  may  have  been  made,  in 
order  to  give  greater  effect  to  the  sudden  downfall  of  the 
Burtons.  But  yet,  there  are  circumstances  attending 
their  departure,  which  give  some  shadow  of  probability 
to  the  rumor.  If  this  prove  true  also,  truly  the  career  of 
the  Burtons  was  as  short  as  it  was  brilliant,  and  their 
former  most  obsequious  admirers  are  now  their  most  ac- 
tive defamers.  How  like  the  world  as  it  is  found  in  fash- 
ionable circles  !  we  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful,  my 
dear  Ellen,  for  having  been  taught  the  folly  of  seeking  for 
happiness  in  such  scenes,  and  in  having  learned  to  look 
for  it,  where  it  is  only  to  be  found,  in  the  quiet  domestic 
circle  and  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  our  duties  to  God, 
and  our  fellow-creatures." 

Whenever  I  afterwards  heard  of  a  family  suddenly  ris- 
ing into  wealth  and  fashionable  notoriety,  my  memory 
always  reverted  to  the  Burtons,  and  it  was  sometime  be- 
fore I  learned  what  had  become  of  them.  Previously  to 
my  accepting  an  invitation  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harcourt, 
to  bring  my  dear  Edward  and  Charles  with  me,  to  pay 
them  a  long  promised  visit,  I  took  them  to  Oakwood  that 


96  AMANDA    MALVINA    BTTRTON. 

we  might  visit  the  scenes  hallowed  by  the  remembrance 
of  their  sainted  mother.  On  passing  through  the  adja- 
cent village,  I  went  into  the  store  formerly  kept  by  Mr. 
Burton  to  make  a  trifling  purchase.  To  my  utter  sur- 
prise I  found  Mrs.  Burton  again  behind  the  counter.  She 
was  much  agitated  on  seeing  me  so  unexpectedly,  but  ap- 
peared to  be  very  much  changed.  She  gave  me  several 
particulars  of  her  history,  and  informed  me  that  her  hus- 
band was  still  in  Europe,  and  that  he  sent  on  frequent 
remittances  to  her  in  money  and  goods.  Upon  my  ask- 
ing for  Amanda,  she  confirmed  the  report  circulated  res- 
pecting her  husband,  but  said  that  he  loved  Amanda,  al- 
though her  supposed  wealth  led  him  first  to  address  her. 
She  said  he  was  a  sober  man,  and  had  become  quite  an 
industrious  one  in  endeavoring  to  make  a  competence  for 
his  family,  and  tried  in  every  way  he  could  to  reconcile 
Amanda  to  her  humble  condition,  and  to  make  amends 
for  the  bitter  disappointment  he  had  caused  her,  by  his  as- 
suming a  false  name  and  title.  Mrs.  Burton  also  inform- 
ed me  that  they  resided  in  Philadelphia,  where  Mr. 
Holmes  kept  a  store.  Upon  finding  that  I  intended  pas- 
sing through  there  on  my  way  to  New  York,  she  re- 
quested me  to  take  charge  of  a  small  package  for  her 
daughter.  I  willingly  acceded  to  her  wishes  as  I  felt  an 
interest  in  Amanda,  and  was  anxious  to  see  her.  I  val- 
ued her  good  traits  of  character,  even  while  I  was  dis- 
posed to  condemn  her  folly.  And  now  that  she  had  ex- 
perienced so  sudden  a  reverse  of  fortune,  I  felt  it  a  duty 
to  visit  her  in  her  adversity.  Upon  my  arrival  at  Phila- 
delphia, I  followed  the  direction  given  by  Mrs.  Burton, 
which  led  me  to  an  humble  dwelling  in  an  obscure  part 
of  the  city.  A  small  grocery  store  was  kept  in  it,  and  I 
felt  some  hesitation  in  entering,  as  there  was  no  other 
door  to  the  house  but  the  one  opening  into  the  shop. 
When  I  went  in  I  recognized  the  ci-devant  Lord  Merton, 


AMANDA   MALVINA   BURTON.  97 

attired  in  a  linen  apron.  He  appeared  to  be  embarrassed 
when  I  asked  for  Amanda,  but  quickly  recovering  him- 
self, he  opened  the  door  and  invited  me  into  a  small  room 
where  I  found  two  chubby  little  children  playing  on  the 
floor.  He  called  his  wife,  and  she  came  in  soon  after- 
ward. Poor  Amanda  seemed  to  be  quite  overcome  when 
she  found  who  was  her  visitor,  as  the  contrast  between 
her  former  circumstances  and  the  present  must  have  been 
forcibly  recalled,  when  she  recollected  the  last  time  I  saw 
her.  Blushes  of  mortified  pride,  and  tears  of  genuine 
feeling  suffused  her  still  beautiful  countenance,  and  she 
wept  long  and  bitterly.  "  I  am  a  poor  weak  creature," 
said  she,  "  I  thought  that  I  had  learned  to  be  contented 
in  my  present  condition."  I  am  more  comfortable  than 
I  deserve  to  be.  Mr.  Holmes  is  a  kind  husband  and 
tries  to  make  me  happy,  and  how  much  greater  would 
have  been  my  disappointment  had  he  proved  cruel,  or 
neglectful.  I  thought  the  serpent,  pride,  was  almost 
crushed  in  my  bosom,  but  I  found  it  sprung  again  into 
renewed  strength,  when  I  saw  you.  I  have  many  hum- 
ble friends  around  me,  but  they  are  kind  and  true.  Oh  ! 
how  unlike  those  who  professed  so  much  for  me,  in  the 
day  of  prosperty,  for  those  were  the  first  to  add  insult  to 
our  misfortunes.  One  of  my  neighbors  has  been  a  bless- 
ing to  me  ;  she  was  formerly  in  better  circumstances,  and 
is  now  a  poor  widow,  but  she  is  a  Christian,  and  has 
taught  me  to  feel  resigned  to  the  lot  that  providence  has 
assigned  me,  by  endeavoring  to  fulfill  its  duties. 

As  I  bid  my  old  schoolmate  farewell,  I  thought  that 
she  was  then  more  truly  an  object  of  envy,  and  admira- 
tion, than  when  she  was  moving  in  the  fashionable  circles 
of  New  York,  a  bright  attraction  to  those  who  crowded 
round  her  as  a  fashionable  belle,  and  the  prospective 
heiress  of  a  wealthy  merchant. 
9 


CHAPTER    VII. 

MARGARET    ETHER1NGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE. 

Think  now  of  noble  birth.  If  any  one  should  glory  in  this,  how  idle 
and  how  fruitless  would  that  glory  be !  Because  every  one  knows  that 
all  men  came  from  one  father  and  one  mother. 

God  created  men  on  the  earth.  He  has  connected  together  the  soul 
and  the  body  "by  his  power,  and  made  all  men  equally  noble  in  their 
first  nature.  Why  do  ye  then  arrogate  over  other  men  for  your  birth 
without  works  ?  Now  you  can  find  none  unnoble.  But  all  are  equally 
noble  if  you  will  think  of  your  beginning,  creature  and  the  creator,  and 
afterward  of  your  own  nativity ;  yet  the  right  nobility  is  in  the  mind. 
It  is  not  in  the  flesh.  KING  ALFRED'S  BOCTICS. 

IT  was  upon  one  of  the  calm,  unclouded  days  of  sum- 
mer, that  I  was  tempted  by  a  beautiful  afternoon,  to  take 
a  stroll  upon  the  Battery.  Languid  and  enervated  by  the 
sultry  atmosphere  of  the  crowded  city,  my  sight  aching 
and  dimmed  by  the  noon-tide  glare  reflected  from  paved 
streets  and  the  weary  perspective  of  buildings,  I  felt  like 
another  being  as  the  breeze  came  freshly  from  the  waters, 
bathing  my  brows  with  its  delicious  coolness,  and  sooth- 
ing my  ear  with  its  refreshing  sound,  as  it  stirred  the 
branches  of  the  overarching  trees.  And  it  was  a  glorious 
sight  too ! — that  noble  bay,  with  its  green  islands  and  its 
beautiful  shores.  As  I  watched  the  light  barks  as  they 
rose  and  fell  with  the  undulating  waves,  or  the  distant 
ship,  with  its  white  sails  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  I  felt 
a  strange  yearning  to  be  out  upon  the  waters.  There  is 
a  life,  a  mystery  in  their  pulsating,  unquiet  heavings, 
whether  you  watch  them  from  the  shore,  or  are  borne 
<upon  their  surface,  that  is  wildly,  fearfully  exciting. 
These  gathered  waters  are  never  wholly  still,  even  in 
their  calmest  hours.  Though  they  may  sleep  in  quiet- 
ness, yet  there  is  vitality  left  in  the  throbbings  of  their 
bosom. 


MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE.  99 

This  wonderful  element  is  never  at  rest,  from  the 
smallest  rill  that  gurgles  through  green  meadows,  to  the 
mighty  ocean  whose  waves  are  dashed  into  foam.  Its 
motion  is  ceaseless,  and  its  coursing  currents  will  ever  be 
onward  and  onward  and  onward,  until  the  foot  of  the 
Archangel  will  be  planted  in  the  sea,  to  proclaim  unto 
earth  that  Time  shall  be  no  longer.  Oh  !  who  can  de- 
clare the  wisdom,  the  power,  and  the  goodness  of  God ! 
Oh  that  men  would  praise  Him  for  His  wonderful  works  ! 

The  thoughts  that  rushed  upon  my  mind,  and  the  feel- 
ings that  vibrated  in  my  heart  as  I  continued  gazing  on 
the  scene  before  me,  made  me  for  a  while  unconscious  of 
the  place,  or  of  the  presence  of  others.  I  was  first  roused 
from  my  reverie  by  a  deep  sigh  from  a  lady  who  was 
sitting  near  me.  She  was  so  closely  veiled  that  I  could 
get  no  glimpse  of  her  face,  but  I  was  struck  by  the  grace- 
ful outlines  of  her  finely  proportioned  figure,  and  the  air 
of  gentility  in  her  whole  appearance.  There  was  a  mel- 
ancholy abstraction  in  her  attitude,  as  she  sat  with  her 
head  slightly  bending  as  if  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ground,  while  her  thoughts  were  wandering  far  away 
among  the  saddening  haunts  of  memory.  I  felt  deeply 
interested  in  her,  and  desirous  to  know  who  she  was. 
While  my  imagination  was  rapidly  sketching  her  history, 
and  suggesting  the  probable  causes  of  her  sorrow,  a  little 
girl  came  with  hasty  steps  towards  her,  and  said,  "  I  wish 
you  would  reprove  sister  Alicia,  Miss  Etherington,  for 
she  will  not  mind  me,  and  you  know  mamma  has  posi- 
tively forbid  our  associating  with  any  girls  when  we  do 
not  know  who  they  are."  The  familiar  sound  of  the 
name  by  which  she  addressed  the  lady,  startled  me.  But 
as  soon  as  I  heard  the  lady's  voice  in  reply,  I  knew  that 
it  could  be  none  other  than  my  old  schoolmate,  Margaret 
Etherington  ! 

When  I  first  made  myself  known  to  her,  or  rather  re- 


100  MARGARET   ETHERINGTON,   OR   FAMILY   PRIDE. 

called  myself  to  her  recollection,  her  sadness  gave  place 
to  a  dignified  reserve.  But  after  we  had  talked  over  the 
days  we  spent  at  Oakwood,  and  of  our  departed  Mrs. 
Norville,  this  all  vanished,  and  she  addressed  me  with 
the  freedom  and  ease  of  an  old  friend. 

"  You  were  doubtlessly  surprised,  my  dear  Ellen,"  she 
said,  "  to  meet  me  in  New  York,  and  to  find  me  filling 
my  present  situation,  that  of  a  governess  to  the  two  little 
girls  who  are  sitting  beneath  that  elm  tree.  I  have  ex- 
perienced a  bitter  change  since  we  parted  from  each  other 
on  the  breaking  up  of  the  Oakwood  school.  Little  did  I 
think  that  I  ever  could  have  stooped  to  labor  for  my  own 
subsistence,  but  I  could  better  brook  even  this,  than"  to 
have  lived  in  dependence  on  my  proud  relatives,  yet  there 
is  one  thing  left  of  which  nothing  can  deprive  me,  I  am 
an  Etherington  still !  and  the  consciousness  of  this,  lifts 
me  above  every  trial  I  have  to  endure.  Amidst  all  my 
poverty,  I  would  not  exchange  the  proud  satisfaction  of 
having  descended  from  one  of  the  first  families  in  the 
country,  for  all  the  wealth  and  luxury  of  my  fashionable 
employers. 

"  After  I  returned  home,  from  Oakwood,  I  found  my 
dear  father  less  cheerful  than  he  used  to  be.  He  ap- 
peared to  suffer  from  some  cause  of  disquietude,  but  made 
no  communication  to  me  on  the  subject  that  harassed 
him.  But  the  crisis  came  at  last,  and  the  shock  was  sud- 
den and  overwhelming.  My  noble  minded  parent  had 
always  implicitly  trusted  the  management  of  his  pecuni- 
ary affairs  to  his  agent,  and  never  even  knew  the  extent 
of  his  funded  income,  or  the  annual  proceeds  from  his 
plantation.  Whatever  sums  he  wished  for,  were  always 
ready  when  demanded,  and  it  was  as  new  as  unexpected 
to  him,  when  he  was  first  told  that  his  income  had  be- 
come so  far  reduced  as  to  make  it  necessary  that  he 
should  proportion  his  expenses  to  his  resources.  The 


MARGARET    ETHER1NGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE.          101 

agent  finding  this  suggestion  unpleasant  to  my  father, 
readily  offered  to  make  advances  for  him,  which  he  said 
could  be  soon  redeemed,  when  a  revival  of  trade  increased 
the  value  of  the  yearly  crops.  This  proposal  was  acceded 
to,  and  my  father  still  kept  up  the  style  of  living  to  which 
he  had  always  been  accustomed,  and  restricted  his  princely 
establishment  in  nothing.  Think  not  that  I  reproach  his 
memory  in  this, — no,  much  as  I  have  suffered,  yet  I  feel 
more  pride  in  claiming  one  like  him  as  a  parent,  than  to 
have  been  descended  from  a  man  who  had  spent  his  life 
in  the  ignoble  employment  of  adding  up  long  lines  of 
petty  sums,  or  of  measuring  off  goods  by  the  yard  for  two 
or  three  per  cent  profit,  though  it  had  enabled  him  to 
become  the  possessor  of  millions." 

"  My  dear  Margaret,"  I  ventured  to  remark,  "  there  is 
a  prudent  preparation  for  the  future,  and  a  necessary  care 
to  be  exerted  in  providing  for  the  present,  which  is  not 
only  laudable,  but  is  a  duty  incumbent  upon  all,  and  is 
quite  as  distinct  from  the  debasing  love  of  gain  as  it  is 
from  reckless  extravagance  or  thoughtless  improvidence. 
A  life  of  honest  industry,  in  any  occupation,  has  no  mean- 
ness attached  to  it,  and  those  who  have  been  so  accus- 
tomed to  affluence,  as  never  to  know  the  want  of  money, 
ought  to  be  pitied  rather  than  commended,  for  their  inca- 
pability of  feeling  the  necessity  of  its  proper  manage- 
ment." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,"  she  added,  with  sweet  ingenu- 
ousness, "but  those  are  the  prejudices  of  my  birth  and 
education,  and  it  may  be  that  my  dear  parent  and  I  would 
have  been  much  happier,  had  we  but  listened  to  the 
affectionate  counsel  of  our  sainted  cousin  Norville,  who 
by  her  own  experience  was  so  well  fitted  to  be  an  adviser. 
If  my  father  had  only  sold  part  of  his  large  estate,  and 
given  up  some  of  our  luxurious  indulgences,  he  might  in 
all  probability  have  saved  a  competence  for  his  old  age, 
9* 


102         MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE. 

and  might  even  now  have  been  spared  to  me,  but  he  was 
a  proud  man  and  could  not  bear  the  least  hint  as  to  the 
necessity  of  retrenchment.  His  agent,  though  not  legally 
dishonest,  was  a  shrewd  man  of  business,  and  his  situa- 
tion enabled  him  to  gain  many  advantages  for  himself, 
from  my  father's  necessities.  He  had  held  a  mortgage 
on  the  estate  for  nearly  a  year,  when  a  tempting  offer 
made  to  him  by  one  who  wished  to  purchase  it,  induced 
him  to  foreclose  it,  much  to  my  father's  surprise  and  in- 
dignation. The  sale  took  place,  and  we  were  obliged  to 
relinquish  the  patrimony,  which  had  been  in  the  possess- 
ion of  the  Etherington  family  for  more  than  a  century. 
My  poor  father  was  unable  to  bear  up  under  the  loss  of 
his  fortune  and  estate,  and  survived  the  shock  but  a  few 
months.  Oh  my  dear  Ellen,  I  cannot  describe  to  you 
the  agony  that  convulsed  my  heart  when  I  saw  my  only 
parent  lying  a  corpse  before  me — all  that  I  loved  or  val- 
ued in  life  was  gone,  and  I  stood  alone  and  an  orphan, 
without  a  tie  to  bind  me  to  earth. 

"  I  had  two  or  three  distant  relatives  on  my  mother's 
side,  with  whom  I  had  never  cultivated  much  intimacy, 
as  they  were  wholly  uncongenial  to  both  my  departed 
father  and  to  me.  They  resided  at  some  distance,  in  the 
capital  of  the  State,  and  as  the  full  extent  of  the  losses 
sustained  had  not  yet  been  ascertained,  they  considered 
me  still  comparatively  wealthy,  and  sent  for  me  to  fix  my 
residence  with  them.  Not  knowing  what  resources  I 
might  have  to  depend  on,  when  the  estate  was  settled, 
and  wholly  ignorant  where  to  go,  or  what  to  do  for  the 
best,  I  readily  yielded  to  their  kindly  expressed  wishes, 
by  accepting  their  invitation.  At  first  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  the  excessive  attentions  I  received,  and  although 
they  were  too  much  devoted  to  fashion  and  frivolity  to 
suit  my  tastes,  yet  I  thought  they  were  sincere  in  the 
.  sympathy  and  affection  they  evinced  for  me,  while  mourn- 


MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE.        103 

ing  the  recent  loss  of  my  beloved  father.  But  from  the 
time  when  it  was  known  that  the  settlement  of  his  effects 
would  leave  me  so  limited  an  income  as  to  be  insufficient 
for  my  own  support,  their  whole  manner  towards  me  was 
altered.  I  saw  that  I  was  looked  on  as  an  unwelcome 
visitant,  and  I  could  not  brook  a  dependence,  which  was 
evidently  offered  without  a  desire  of  its  being  accepted. 
For  a  moment  my  proud  heart  was  humbled,  and  I  felt 
the  helpless  desolation  to  which  I  was  reduced,  but  I 
quickly  recovered  my  self-possession,  and  declined  their 
heartless  offer  of  a  home,  with  more  pride  and  as  much 
assumed  superiority  as  they  had  exhibited  in  proffering 
it.  As  soon  as  I  was  left  alone,  I  gave  way  to  a  parox- 
ysm of  mental  distress  and  agitation.  I  was  determined 
to  seek  a  home  elsewhere,  but  knew  not  how  I  could 
support  myself  in  the  interval  that  would  elapse,  before  I 
could  get  even  the  little  secured  to  me  from  the  wreck  of 
the  estate.  After  hurriedly  devising  several  plans,  which 
were  rejected  as  soon  as  I  reconsidered  them,  my  attention 
was  accidentally  arrested  by  an  advertisement  for  a  gov- 
erness in  a  New  York  paper,  which  was  lying  on  a  table 
before  me.  With  the  sudden  resolution  of  despair,  I 
determined  to  apply  for  it,  without  suffering  myself  to 
dwell  upon  anything  that  might  have  deterred  me  from 
entering  upon  such  a  situation.  The  letter  was  immedi- 
ately written  and  sent  to  the  Post  Office.  The  answer 
was  favorable,  the  salary  a  liberal  one.  I  bade  a  hurried 
farewell  to  my  fashionable  relatives,  and  embarked  in  a 
vessel  bound  to  New  York. 

"  The  family  in  which  I  reside,  is  considered  here 
among  the  first  in  fashionable  life,  though  the  father  rose 
from  an  obscure  condition,  and  owes  his  large  fortune  to 
his  industry  and  love  of  gain.  I  am  treated  with  respect, 
for  whatever  may  be  my  situation,  I  can  brook  no  other 
treatment.  Knowing  that  I  have  seen  '  better  days,'  and 


104  MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE. 

perhaps  anxious  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  their  female 
visitors,  who  express  much  surprise  on  the  singularity  of 
a  Southern  born  governess,  they  frequently  wish  me  to 
mingle  with  the  society  that  frequents  the  house.  But  it 
is  my  endeavor  to  avoid  company  as  much  as  I  can,  and 
to  keep  myself  secluded.  The  little  that  I  have  seen  of 
it,  has  given  vne  a  contempt  for  its  shallow  preten- 
sions to  refinement  and  gentility.  Those  who  have 
sprung  from  the  lowest  rank  are  most  assuming,  and 
their  jealous  fears  lest  any  should  intrude  upon  them  who 
are  not  entitled  to  the  privilege,  forcibly  exhibits  their 
own  doubtful  claims  to  the  exclusiveness  they  are  so  for- 
ward in  asserting.  As  they  have  no  genealogical  de- 
scent to  boast  of,  they  make  wealth  and  expensive  living 
their  graduating  standard  of  rank.  Every  thing  is  esti- 
mated according  to  its  cost,  and  you  hear  of  the  sums 
given  for  articles  of  dress,  from  a  shawl  down  to  a  pocket 
handkerchief,  and  have  as  accurate  a  knowledge  of  their 
expenditures  in  furniture  and  equipage,  as  if  they  had 
given  you  an  extract  from  their  account  books.  It  is 
amusing  to  see  how  this  spirit  pervades  even  the  children 
and  servants,  for  my  little  pupils  will  often  entertain  and 
astonish  the  chamber-maid  with  the  second-hand  gossip 
of  the  parlor,  by  giving  the  cost  of  the  dress  of  their 
mother's  visitors.  I  have  often  checked  them,  and 
endeavored  to  inspire  them  with  better  notions  of  what 
constitutes  gentility,  but  with  little  effect,  when  opposed  to 
the  influence  of  examples  that  counteract  my  efforts." 

"  In  all  commercial  cities,"  I  replied,  "  the  class  that 
owes  its  rise  to  suddenly  accumulated  wealth,  and  whose 
distinction  is  solely  gained  by  profuse  expenditure  and 
gorgeous  display,  must  always  be  a  large  one,  as  the 
greater  number  who  crowd  its  streets,  or  fill  its  fashionable 
saloons,  are  drawn  thither  by  the  facilities  these  afford 
for  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  or  the  attainment  of  notori- 


MARGARET   ETHERINGTON   OR   FAMILY   PRIDE.          105 

ety.  But  there  are  other  circles  where  there  is  as  much 
true  refinement,  as  much  graceful  elegance  or  as  highly 
cultivated  intellectual  tastes  as  can  be  found  in  the  best 
society  in  any  portion  of  the  country ;  and  in  which 
you  will  find  none  of  the  objections  you  so  justly  make 
to  that  specimen  of  New  York  society  with  which  you 
have  been  made  acquainted." 

Before  Margaret  had  time  to  make  any  reply,  one  of 
the  little  girls  came  again  to  her  and  said,  "  Miss  Ether- 
ington,  I  wish  you  would  make  sister  stay  with  you,  for 
she  will  insist  on  making  acquaintance  with  those  chil- 
dren, and  has  even  asked  them  to  ride  home  with  us, 
and  I  am  sure  they  cannot  be  genteel,  for  their  dress  is 
quite  plain  and  common." 

Margaret  replied,  "  my  dear  Mary,  fine  dress  is  not 
always  an  evidence  of  gentility,  but  call  your  sister,  it  is 
time  you  should  be  going  home,  as  it  is  later  than  I 
thought  it  was."  Then  motioning  to  the  footman  who 
was  standing  near  us,  she  told  him  to  attend  the  young 
ladies  to  the  carriage,  that  she  would  walk  home  with  a 
friend. 

As  soon  as  Margaret  had  seen  her  little  charge  seated 
in  the  carriage,  we  left  the  Battery,  and  slowly  pursued 
our  way  engaged  in  an  interesting  conversation  on  the 
past  and  the  present.  I  spoke  to  her  of  Emily,  and  of 
Mr.  Harcourt,  and  pressed  her  to  return  with  me,  that 
Emily  would  be  surprised  and  delighted  to  see  her. 
But  Margaret  refused,  saying,  "  no,  my  dear  Ellen,  the 
sight  of  an  old  friend  would  only  make  my  own  lot  seem 
harder  to  bear.  Although  my  proud  spirit  will  -not 
acknowledge  any  inferiority  in  having  been  obliged  to 
become  a  governess,  yet  I  am  conscious  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  that  I  am  looked  on  as  filling  a  station  far 
subordinate  to  the  one  which  Emily  adorns.  No !  do 
not  attempt  to  draw  me  from  the  seclusion  that  is  most 


106         MARGARET    ETHERLNGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE. 

agreeable  to  my  own  feelings — and  forget  that  Margaret 
Etherington  still  lives." 

On  passing  up  Broadway,  a  gentleman  bowed  to  me, 
and  I  said  to  Margaret,  "  There  is  an  estimable  man 
whom  I  pity  from  my  heart.  Like  you,  he  keeps  him- 
self aloof  from  society,  for  fear  of  not  being  considered 
as  an  equal, — though  his  pride  rises  from  a  different 
source,  yet  its  effects  are  the  same  as  in  your  case.  He 
was  a  student  of  Mr.  Harcourt's,  and  is  always  a  wel- 
come visitor  at  his  house ;  but  because  the  father  of 
Henry  Bancroft  happened  to  be  a  mechanic,  he  is  fearful 
that  the  society  to  which  his  manner  and  acquirements 
entitle  him,  will  consider  him  as  an  intruder.  His  mor- 
bid sensitiveness  on  this  subject  is  the  only  weak  point 
in  his  character,  and  it  is  often  regretted  by  his  friends, 
that  one  so  capable  of  shining  in  the  circles  of  the  refined 
and  the  intellectual,  should  keep  himself  in  the  back- 
ground on  account  of  the  senseless  prejudice  of  a  few 
silly  worldlings.  Like  you,  he  would  make  himself  a 
victim  to  the  false  influences  by  which  some  portion  of 
our  society  is  still  slavishly  bound ;  forgetting  that  indi- 
vidual claims  are  the  only  ones  thought  worthy  of  atten- 
tion, by  those  whose  companionship  is  most  desirable. 
All  persons  of  true  refinement  and  gentility,  are  quick  in 
acknowledging  kindred  minds  and  tastes,  and  are  seldom 
or  never  governed  by  adventitious  circumstances.  It  is 
only  the  parvenu  and  the  pretender  that  pause  to  inquire, 
'  what  was  his  father  ?'  '  what  does  he  follow  ?'  before 
they  can  tell  whether  they  ought  to  consider  a  man  to  be 
a  gentleman.  You  err,  my  dear  Margaret  in  supposing 
that  any  one  whose  favorable  opinion  is  worth  cultivat- 
ing, will  respect  you  less  for  becoming  a  governess ;  and 
he  errs  also,  in  imagining  that  the  trade  of  his  father 
will  prevent  him  from  taking  that  place  in  society  to 
which  he  is  entitled." 


MARGARET   ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY   PRIDE.        107 

I  left  Margaret  at  the  door  of  her  home,  and  continued 
my  walk  to  Mr.  Harcourt's.  Emily  was  surprised  to 
hear  that  Margaret  Etherington  was  in  New  York,  and 
said  that  she  would  go  with  me  to  see  her.  And  the 
next  day,  my  friend  and  I  proceeded  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Beaufort.  We  were  ushered  into  the  drawing  room 
where  several  visiters  were  seated.  Mrs.  Beaufort 
though  not  personally  acquainted  with  Emily,  knew  her, 
as  Mrs.  Harcourt,  and  appeared  surprised  that  our  visit 
was  intended  for  her  governess.  She  sent  for  Margaret, 
who  soon  after  entered  in  some  agitation  on  meeting  us, 
but  this  quickly  gave  place  to  a  dignified  self-possession, 
when  she  found  there  were  other  ladies  present.  Emily 
was  much  gratified  in  seeing  her  old  schoolmate  after  so 
long  a  separation,  and  pressed  her  to  spend  the  next 
evening  with  us.  I  told  her  we  could  not  take  a  refusal, 
for  I  wished  her  to  see  Edward  and  Charles  Norville, 
whom  I  expected  to  return  the  next  morning,  from  their 
tour  through  New  England.  Margaret  consented,  though 
with  some  degree  of  reluctance,  as  she  was  fearful  of 
meeting  others  beside  her  old  friends.  Mrs.  Beaufort 
and  her  visiters  exchanged  glances  of  surprise,  doubt- 
lessly thinking  it  strange  that  Mrs.  Harcourt  would  visit 
a  governess  on  terms  of  equality ;  little  imagining  that 
the  Miss  Etherington  whom  they  considered  beneath 
them  on  account  of  the  station  she  them  filled,  was 
entitled  by  birth,  education  and  manners,  to  a  rank  far 
above  theirs.  How  favorably  did  Margaret's  quiet  dig- 
nity and  grace,  contrast  with  their  assumed  gentility, — 
one  was  the  genuine  refinement  of  a  well-bred  woman  ; 
the  other — the  affected  elegance  of  conventional  polish. 

After  we  left  the  house,  Emily  appeared  to  be  lost  in 
thought,  and  then  suddenly  rousing  from  her  reverie, 
said  "  Do  you  not  think,  my  dear  Ellen,  that  I  could 
persuade  Margaret  to  make  her  home  with  me.  It 


108       MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE. 

grieves  me  to  see  her  placed  in  a  situation,  which  ap- 
pears a  subordinate  one,  to  those  with  whom  she  must 
associate  at  Mr.  Beaufort's."  I  replied  that  Margaret 
had  refused  to  become  dependent  on  her  relatives,  and 
would  never  consent  to  live  thus  with  a  friend.  Then 
said  she,  "  perhaps  she  would  assist  me  in  educating  my 
daughters,  will  you  make  the  proposal  to  her  as  delicately 
as  you  can  ?  use  every  argument  that  may  induce  her  to 
consent  to  reside  with  us,  as  I  cannot  bear  to  see  her, 
with  those  who  cannot  appreciate  her."  I  promised  to 
make'  the  trial,  anxiously  hoping  that  it  would  prove 
favorable  to  Emily's  benevolent  wishes. 

The  carriage  was  sent  for  Margaret  the  next  evening 
at  an  early  hour ;  and  the  pleasure  we  enjoyed  in  her 
intellectual  companionship,  made  Emily  still  more 
anxious  to  gain  Margaret's  consent  to  the  proposal  she 
had  authorized  me  to  make.  Mr.  Harcourt  warmly 
acceded  to  the  wish  of  his  wife,  as  he  felt  her  assistance 
would  be  invaluable  to  Emily,  in  cultivating  the  minds 
of  his  children  ;  and  that  she  would  be  quite  a  delightful 
accession  to  their  domestic  circle,  and  social  parties. 

When  I  first  spoke  to  Margaret  on  the  subject,  she 
raised  many  objections,  from  that  feeling  which  all 
proud  minds  experience, — that  it  is  easier  to  bear  a 
reverse  of  fortune  in  a  strange  land  among  strangers, 
than  in  our  own  home  with  those  who  have  known  us  in 
prosperity.  But  at  last  by  reasoning  with  her,  and  per- 
suading her,  I  succeeded  in  gaining  her  consent,  and  had 
the  happiness  of  seeing  her  established  as  an  inmate  of 
Mr.  Harcourt's  household. 

Among  our  visiters,  there  was  no  one  who  appeared 
more  deeply  interested  in  my  friend  Margaret,  than 
Henry  Bancroft.  There  was  a  sympathy  in  their  feel- 
ings, and  a  congeniality  in  their  tastes,  which  led  to 
attentions  from  him  so  delicate  and  respectful  that  Mar- 


MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY   PRIDE.        109 

garet  could  not  help  receiving  them  with  some  degree  of 
pleasure.  The  remembrance  of  our  evenings  at  Mr. 
Harcourt's  is  still  one  of  the  most  delightful  pages  in  the 
tablet  of  memory.  Margaret's  vigorous,  energetic  mind, 
and  lofty  sentiment  were  sweetly  tempered  by  the  intel- 
lectual graces,  and  feminine  tenderness  of  my  gentle 
Emily.  And  when  two  or  three  of  Mr.  Harcourt's 
favorite  companions  were  added  to  our  fireside  circle, 
and  all  gave  free  utterance  to  their  thoughts,  opinions 
and  feelings,  our  domestic  conversational  parties  were 
more  pleasant  and  attractive  than  any  thing  that  the  gay 
world  could  furnish.  And  a  few  evenings  thus  spent 
together,  give  persons  a  more  intimate  acquajntance  with 
each  other,  than  years  of  frequent  association  in  the 
crowded  halls  of  fashion.  Henry  Bancroft  threw  off  the 
reserve  that  had  obscured  his  fine  talents,  and  became  at 
times  quite  animated  and  brilliant ;  though  his  conversa- 
tion was  more  characterized  by  thought  and  feeling  than 
by  wit.  But  whenever  Margaret  gave  expression  to  any 
opinion  which  evinced  her  pride  of  ancestral  descent,  Mr.. 
Bancroft  appeared  to  feel  it  deeply,  and  would  again  be- 
come abstracted  and  gloomy.  One  evening,  after  Marga- 
ret had  spoken  thoughtlessly  on  the  subject  of  family 
distinction,  I  remonstrated  with  her,  telling  her  that  Mr. 
Bancroft's  sensitiveness  on  this  point,  should  prevent  her 
expressing  such  opinions  before  him.  "  I  do  not  wish  to 
see  you  less  candid  or  frank,  my  dear  Margaret,"  said  I, 
"  but  there  is  a  regard  due  to  other's  feelings,  even  when 
we  express  our  own  !" 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  she  replied,  "  I  respect  Mr.  Ban- 
croft, and  would  not  intentionally  wound  his  feelings,  but," 
she  hesitatingly  faltered,  "  I  feared  from  one  or  two  cir- 
cumstances that  he  might  have  an  idea "  here  wo- 
man's pride  forbade  her  to  finish  the  confession,  but  I 
saw  that  adversity  had  not  yet  taught  its  uses  to  my 
10 


110        MARGARET   ETHERINGTON,   OR   FAMILY    PRIDE. 

friend.  She  found  that  Henry  Bancroft's  esteem  was 
giving  place  to  a  more  tender  sentiment,  and  she  used 
this  means  to  prevent  its  acknowledgment.  And  yet 
there  was  a  struggle  going  on  within  her  heart,  between 
her  love  and  her  pride,  which  she  scarcely  dared  to 
dwell  upon.  She  spurned  the  idea  of  marrying  into  an 
obscure  family,  and  yet  her  thoughts  had  lingered  round 
the  image  of  Henry  Bancroft,  until  he  had  become 
dearer  to  her  than  she  was  willing  to  admit,  even  to 
herself. 

"  My  dear  Margaret,"  I  inadvertently  exclaimed,  as  I 
pressed  her  hand,  "  do  not  let  your  false  pride  destroy 
the  happiness  of  an  estimable  man,  and  prevent  your 
filling  a  station  you  are  fitted  to  adorn,  as  the  happy  wife 
of  one  every  way  worthy  of  you."  "  But  Ellen"  she 
replied,  while  her  dark  eye  flashed  with  kindling  pride  ; 
"  how  can  an  Etherington  stoop  to  an  alliance  beneath 
her  ?" 

u  For  shame,  my  friend,"  said  I,  "  remember  that  Henry 
Bancroft  in  point  of  talents,  education,  manners  and 
fortune  is  considered  here  a  match  for  any  one  ;  and  if 
he  governed  himself  according  to  the  prejudices  of 
fashionable  society,  he  would  deem  it  a  descent  to  marry 
a  governess.  You  have  ridiculed  the  pretensions  of 
those  that  prided  themselves  on  their  wealth,  and  have 
deeply  felt  the  injustice  and  folly  of  their  assumptions; 
may  not  the  pride  of  family  appear  equally  ridiculous  to 
some,  and  be  felt  to  be  equally  unjust  by  others  ?  If  your 
ancestors,  for  several  generations,  have  held  a  station, 
which  placed  them  above  the  necessity  of  labor,  yet 
recollect  that  the  one  who  conferred  this  distinction  upon 
his  descendants,  and  of  whom  you  have  most  reason  to 
be  proud,  was  himself  a  man  of  obscure  birth,  and  owed 
his  title,  his  office,  and  his  estate,  entirely  to  his  own 
merit,  and  his  own  exertions.  Then  how  is  Henry  Ban- 


MARGARET  ETHER1NGTON,    OR    FAMILY   PRIDE.         Ill 

croft  your  inferior,  if  one  of  his  forefathers  not  quite  so 
far  back,  should  have  sprung  from  the  same  humble  con- 
dition as  your  remoter  one.  Forgive  me,  dear  Marga- 
ret," I  added,  "  if  my  interest  in  you  both,  should  lead 
rne  to  say  more  than  I  ought ;  but  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  recklessly  trampling  on  a  heart  devoted  to  you,  and 
throwing  away  an  offer  which  will  rescue  you  from  ad- 
versity, and  secure  to  you  a  home,  made  happy  by  all 
that  refinement,  intellect  and  wealth  can  bestow. 

"  Henry  Bancroft,"  continued  I,  "  has  an  income  inde- 
pendent of  his  profession,  and  if  he  could  only  divest 
himself  of  his  false  pride  and  diffidence,  he  would  find  no 
difficulty  in  taking  a  prominent  place,  in  any  station  to 
which  he  might  aspire.  Recollect  too,  ours  is  not  a 
country  where  men  are  kept  subordinate  on  account  of 
their  origin.  Look  at  most  of  our  distinguished  men, — 
those  who  fill  the  places  of  honor  among  us ;  our  Gover- 
nors, our  Judges,  &c. ;  who  would  think  of  refusing  to 
acknowledge  them  as  equals, — because  they  chanced  to 
be  the  sons  of  mechanics  ?  Henry  Bancroft  has  talents 
and  capacities,  and  his  name  may  yet  sound  as  loftily 
even  in  your  ear,  as  that  of  Etherington." 

Margaret's  aristocratic  prejudices  were  more  subdued 
than  she  was  willing  to  acknowledge.  Now  and  then, 
her  pride  would  manifest  itself, — but  I  saw  with  pleasure 
that  she  was  attaining  a  better  state  of  feeling  under  the 
combined  influence  of  Mr.  Harcourt's  strong,  good  sense, 
and  the  humble  piety  of  Emily.  Though  she  at  first 
repulsed  the  idea  of  an  alliance  with  Henry,  yet  she 
could  not  help  becoming  more  and  more  interested  in 
him,  until  her  pride  was  gradually  overcome  by  the 
gentle,  yet  more  powerful  influence  of  a  growing  attach- 
ment. 

The  time  I  had  spent  at  Mr.  Harcourt's  passed  so 
pleasantly,  that  I  regretted  when  the  day  fixed  on  for  my 


112         MARGARET   ETHER1NGTON,   OR   FAMILY   PRIDE. 

return  to  Glemvood  had  arrived.  Edward  and  Charles 
had  improved  the  opportunity  of  their  recess  from  college 
studies  by  traveling  through  the  New  England  States ; 
and  by  attending  one  or  two  courses  of  lectures  after 
their  return  to  New  York ;  and  were  ready  to  take  their 
places  among  their  fellow  students  with  renewed  physical 
energy,  and  fresh  intellectual  excitement.  We  took 
leave  of  our  kind  friends,  and  set  forward  on  our  home- 
ward journey. 

A  few  months  after  our  return  home,  I  received  the 
following  welcome  letter  from  Emily. 

"  I  know  not  whether  you  will  be  surprised,  or  not,  my 
dear  Ellen,  when  I  tell  you  that  Margaret  Etherington,  is 
shortly  to  be  married  to  Henry  Bancroft.  The  change 
that  was  taking  place  in  her  feelings  before  you  left  us, 
no  doubt  prepared  you  to  receive  this  information  at  some 
future  period.  Soon  after  your  departure  from  New 
York,  Mr.  Bancroft's  mother  removed  into  the  city,  and 
took  a  house  a  short  distance  from  ours.  Mr.  Harcourt 
and  I  lost  no  time  in  making  her  acquaintance,  especially 
on  Margaret's  account,  who,  although  reconciled  to  Henry 
himself,  was  still  afraid  of  finding  his  mother  an  unsuit- 
able associate.  We  found  Mrs.  Bancroft  a  lady-like,  in- 
teresting woman.  She  soon  regarded  me  as  a  friend, 
and  related  to  me  several  incidents  of  her  early  life,  and 
her  subsequent  history,  of  which,  I  shall  give  you  a  short 
sketch,  knowing  your  interest  in  all  that  concerns  Mar- 
garet and  Henry.  Mrs.  Bancroft  was  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman  in  England,  who  died  and  left  her  to  the  care 
of  Sir  Robert  Newman,  his  only  surviving  relative. 
This  bequest  was  not  very  graciously  received  by  the 
wife  and  daughters  of  Sir  Robert,  who  were  mortified  on 
account  of  having  a  poor  relative  as  a  dependent.  She 
was  forbidden  to  associate  with  their  visitors,  or  even  to 
mention  her  relationship  to  them  before  the  servants — 


MARGARET   ETHERINGTON,   OR   FAMILY   PRIDE.       113 

and  was  kept  in  the  children's  apartments  to  assist  the 
nurse  and  governess,  in  attending  to  them.  Sir  Robert 
was  often  obliged  to  be  absent  from  home,  and  was  igno- 
rant of  the  treatment  that  the  destitute  orphan  was  forced 
to  bear,  and  whenever  he  asked  why  Eliza  did  not  mingle 
more  with  the  family,  he  was  told  that  she  prefered  to 
keep  herself  secluded,  and  was  not  fond  of  society.  Poor 
Eliza  was  led  to  believe  that  her  uncle  was  a  stern, 
haughty  man,  and  broken  spirited  by  grief  and  bitter  de- 
pendence, she  thought  there  was  no  one  that  loved  her, 
or  cared  for  her.  Her  only  comfort  was  to  steal  away  to 
some  retired  nook  of  the  grounds,  when  her  charge  were 
engaged  with  their  governess,  and  there  give  vent  to  her 
feelings.  One  day,  while  thus  weeping  over  her  desolate, 
friendless  condition,  her  sobs  were  overheard  by  a  carpen- 
ter, who  was  superintending  some  improvements  on  the 
estate — and  who  happened  to  be  then  passing  by.  He 
had  often  noticed  her  when  walking  with  the  children, 
and  had  become  very  much  interested  in  her.  He  had 
heard  she  was  an  orphan,  and  her  melancholy  expression 
awakened  a  sympathy  in  his  bosom,  which  gave  rise  to  a 
half-formed  wish  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  alleviate  her 
sorrow,  and  contribute  to  her  happiness.  As  yet,  he  had 
only  ventured  to  bow  respectfully  to  her,  as  she  passed 
by  him,  in  her  rambles  with  the  governess  and  the  chil- 
dren, but  when  he  heard  her  convulsive  sobs,  he  ap- 
proached, and  in  a  kind  sympathizing  tone,  asked  her  the 
cause  of  her  sorrow.  The  language  of  kindness  was  so 
new  to  the  young  desolate  Eliza,  that  it  made  her  weep 
still  more  bitterly.  She  confessed  to  him  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  her  situation,  and  her  wish  to  get  a  place  in  some 
family,  where  she  could  find  a  peaceful  home.  She 
looked  on  him  as  a  friend  who  had  unexpectedly  come 
to  advise  her,  as  she  had  long  been  desirous  of  seeking  a 
situation  in  any  capacity,  by  which  she  could  earn  her 
10* 


114         MARGARET   ETHERINGTON,    OR   FAMILY   PRIDE. 

own  support.  Not  knowing  that  she  was  a  relative  of 
Sir  Robert  Newman,  he  made  her  an  offer  of  his  hand, 
and  confessed  the  deep  interest  he  had  long  felt  for  her. 
He  begged  her  to  forgive  his  sudden  avowal,  as  the  sight 
of  her  unhappiness  had  prematurely  forced  it  from  him. 
He  was  so  much  her  senior,  and  the  declaration  was  so 
unexpected  that  Eliza  could  not  at  first  accept  his  offer, 
though  she  felt  grateful  for  his  sympathy,  and  happy  that 
she  had  found  a  friend.  He  requested  her  to  let  him 
ask  permission  of  the  family  to  visit  her,  but  she  refused 
this,  and  was  still  afraid  to  tell  him  of  her  relationship. 
And  in  a  few  weeks  afterward  she  gave  her  consent  to 
marry  him.  This  man  was  Henry  Bancroft's  father. 
He  was  a  worthy  man,  and  one  whose  education  was  su- 
perior to  most  of  his  fellow  mechanics.  He  was  the  son 
of  a  farmer,  who  had  become  reduced  in  his  circumstan- 
ces, and  had  apprenticed  his  sons  to  those  trades  which 
were  considered  likely  to  become  lucrative.  Henry's 
father  was  the  eldest,  and  his  taste  and  skill,  soon  advan- 
ced him  to  the  grade  of  a  master  workman,  and  though 
still  comparatively  young  when  he  met  the  destitute  or- 
phan girl,  yet,  he  was  many  years  older  than  she  was. 
When  he  found  after  his  marriage,  that  his  wife  belonged 
to  a  rank  so  far  above  his  own,  he  determined  if  possible 
to  restore  her  to  a  society  superior  to  that,  which  as  his 
wife,  she  would  be  forced  to  associate  with  in  England, 
and  accordingly  made  up  his  mind  to  emigrate  to  Amer- 
ica,— a  country  where  birth  is  not  an  obstacle  to  social 
elevation.  Here  his  endeavors  to  acquire  wealth,  were 
crowned  with  success,  but  he  never  could  overcome  the 
prejudices  of  caste,  under  which  he  had  been  bound  in 
his  native  land.  His  fortune  would  have  enabled  him  to 
take  a  high  station,  if  he  had  determined  to  push  him- 
self forward,  without  regarding  the  sneers,  or  remarks, 
of  the  would-be  exclusives,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  re- 


MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,    OR    FAMILY    PRIDE.       115 

specting  the  distinctions  of  society,  he  thought  that  the 
barriers  still  existing  in  America,  were  legitimately  inher- 
ited by  her,  as  the  daughter  of  England.  He  retired  to 
a  beautiful  estate  upon  the  Hudson,  where  he  and  his 
Eliza  lived  in  happy  seclusion, — esteemed  by  their  neigh- 
bors, and  undisturbed  by  the  petty  clashings,  competi- 
tions, and  jealous  exclusiveness  of  a  city  aristocracy. 
He  gave  his  only  child  every  advantage  that  money 
could  procure,  and  chose  for  him  the  profession  of  a  law- 
yer, as  one  that  would  enable  him  to  rise  to  a  rank  suited 
to  his  mother's  birth.  Henry's  father  died  about  five 
years  ago,  leaving  his  widow  and  son,  a  handsome  inde- 
pendence, but  Henry  inheriting  his  father's  sensitiveness 
and  reserve,  has  kept  himself  aloof,  and  refused  to  take 
advantage  of  any  opportunity,  to  gain  admission  into 
society.  He  devotes  himself  to  his  profession,  and  most 
of  his  leisure  hours  are  spent  with  his  mother.  Ours  is 
the  only  house  he  visits  intimately,  and  if  he  had  been 
disposed  to  form  an  alliance  with  any  of  our  fashionable 
exclusives,  there  are  many,  I  know,  who  would  have  been 
willing  to  accept  him — for  a  fine  person,  a  handsome  for- 
tune, and  polished  manners,  would  be  irresistible  even 
to  those  who  could  not  appreciate  him  for  the  nobler,  and 
higher  qualities  of  his  mind  and  heart. 

After  Margaret  had  seen  Mrs.  Bancroft,  and  had  heard 
her  history,  her  last  objection  was  completely  overruled, 
and  the  change  she  evinced  in  her  manner  towards 
Henry,  induced  him  to  make  a  respectful  offer  of  his 
hand,  which  as  I  have  already  informed  you,  was  'duly 
accepted.' 

"  Henry,  yesterday,  told  Mr.  Harcourt  that  he  had  made 
inquiries  respecting  the  Etherington  estate,  and  found  from 
the  failure  of  its  proprietor,  it  was  shortly  to  be  offered 
for  sale.  He  said  he  had  made  an  offer  to  purchase  it, 
and  was  in  expectation  of  securing  a  favorable  answer  from 


116        MARGARET    ETHERINGTON,   OR   FAMILY   PRIDE. 

the  one  who  was  authorized  to  dispose  of  it.  He  has 
not  yet  told  Margaret,  for  he  wishes  to  give  her  an  agree- 
able surprise.  This  will  be  happy  news  for  her,  for  I 
know  she  will  gladly  leave  the  scene  of  her  adversity, 
and  her  descent,  as  she  still  considers  her  station  as  gov- 
erness, and  will  be  rejoiced  to  be  once  more  mistress  of 
the  patrimony  of  the  Etheringtons. 

"  Henry  and  Margaret  desired  me  to  ask  you,  and  your 
adopted  brothers,  to  be  present  at  the  wedding,  which  is 
to  take  place  in  a  few  weeks." 

Upon  the  appointed  day,  I  had  the  happiness  of  seeing 
my  old  schoolmate  wedded  to  a  man  so  worthy  of  her, 
and  left  New  York  in  company  with  the  bridal  party,  as 
they  were  proceeding  southward  to  their  future  home. 

I  often  hear  from  my  old  friend  Margaret.  She  is  a 
happy  wife  and  mother, — and  is  filling  the  station  she 
once  held  as  the  mistress  of  Etherington  Manor,  with 
less  pride  than  she  did,  as  the  daughter  of  Robert  Ether- 
ington, but  with  equal  elegance  and  dignity,  as  the  wife 
of  Henry  Bancroft. 


117 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MARY    AND    ELLEN   GROSVENOR,    OR   THE    TWO    SISTERS. 

"  There  may  be  faithful  friendships  formed  in  after  years,  but  where 
a  sister  is  a  sister's  friend,  there  can  be  none  so  tender  and  none  so  true. 
It  is  in  seasons  of  affliction  that  we  prove  the  real  value  of  the  deep 
well-spring  of  a  sister's  love." — MRS.  ELLIS. 

A  FEW  years  ago,  when  I  was  suffering  from  the  effects 
of  a  severe  spell  of  illness,  my  physician  recommended  a 
few  weeks'  residence  at  the  Virginia  Springs.  I  found 
on  my  arrival,  the  usual  number  of  gay  triflers  who 
strangely  delight  in  turning  the  resort  of  the  sick  and  the 
dying  into  a  scene  of  thoughtless  frivolity  and  worldly 
amusements,  and  not  meeting  with  any  one  with  whom 
I  cared  to  associate,  I  kept  myself  in  the  seclusion  of  my 
own  room. 

A  week  or  two  after  I  came  there,  as  I  was  sitting  by 
my  window  watching  the  alighting  of  some  passengers 
who  had  just  arrived  in  the  stage,  I  saw  two  ladies  among 
them  whose  countenances  were  familiar  to  me,  but  I  could 
not  recall  the  place  where  I  had  met  them.  For  several 
mornings  I  saw  these  sisters,  for  such  they  appeared  to 
be,  taking  their  regular  walks,  for  the  benefit  of  the  exer- 
cise and  the  fresh  air.  One  seemed  to  be  quite  an  inva- 
lid, and  it  was  touching  to  see  the  devoted  attentions  paid 
to  her  by  the  other.  No  fond,  anxious  wife,  or  tender 
lover  in  the  days  of  courtship,  could  evince  a  deeper 
sympathy  or  more  untiring  kindness.  Fearful  lest  the 
invalid  should  task  her  strength  too  much,  the  sister 
would  insist  on  her  resting  frequently  beneath  the  shade 
of  a  tree,  and  as  she  reclined  on  the  seat,  the  kind  nurse 
would  stand  by  and  fan  her,  or  wipe  the  moisture  'from 
her  brow.  Sometimes  she  would  gather  the  sweet  wild 


118  MARY   AND   ELLEN    GROSVENOR. 

flowers  that  grew  around,  and  bring  them  to  refresh  the 
sufferer.  A  melancholy  smile  and  a  look  of  deep  affec- 
tion rewarded  these  attentions,  but  an  attachment  like 
that  of  the  one  who  tendered  them,  needed  no  other  grat- 
ification than  the  feeling  that  drew  them  forth. 

Sometimes  the  sisters  would  be  accompanied  by  an  old 
lady,  who  came  with  them  to  the  Springs.  She  occupied 
the  room  next  my  own,  and  two  or  three  trifling  services 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  rendering  her,  brought  about  an 
acquaintance.  Upon  inquiring  from  her  the  name  of  the 
two  females  in  whom  I  had  become  so  much  interested, 
"  They  are,"  said  she  in  reply,  "  the  daughters  of  my  old 
friend  Mr.  Grosvenor — one  is  a  widow,  the  other  is  still 
unmarried."  "Are  their  names  Mary  and  Ellen?"  I 
hastily  inquired.  She  replied  that  they  were.  "  Then," 
said  I,  "  they  must  have  been  once  schoolmates  of  mine, 
and  I  should  gladly  renew  the  acquaintance,  if  agreeable 
to  them.  Tell  them,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merdaunt,  that  Ellen 
Maitland,  a  former  pupil  of  the  Oakwood  school,  is  anx- 
ious to  see  them."  The  old  lady  soon  returned  to  my 
room,  with  a  kind  invitation  to  visit  them. 

I  found  that  they  were  indeed  my  old  friends  Mary 
and  Ellen  Grosvenor.  We  had  a  long  and  interesting 
conversation  about  Mrs.  Norville  and  our  old  school- 
mates, and  we  seemed  mutually  gratified  to  have  met 
with  companions  with  whom  we  could  associate,  in  the 
crowd  of  strangers  that  thronged  the  place.  Mary  was 
but  little  altered  in  appearance,  except  by  such  changes 
as  added  years  will  bring,  but  Ellen's  pale  cheek  and  sad- 
thoughted  countenance,  bore  traces  of  much  sickness  and 
sorrow.  I  felt  anxious  to  know  something  of  their  history 
since  we  parted,  and  befere  I  left  the  Springs,  their  old 
friend  Mrs.  Merdaunt  made  me  acquainted  with  most  of 
the  particulars  in  the  life  and  experience  of  the  two 
sisters. 


MARY   AND   ELLEN    GROSVENOR.  119 

After  Mary  and  Ellen  left  the  Oakwood  school,  to 
accompany  their  parents  upon  their  removal  into  another 
State,  they  continued  to  carry  on  a  course  of  study  at 
home.  Fond  of  retirement  and  of  literary  pursuits,  they 
divided  their  time  between  the  domestic  duties  of  their 
sex,  and  the  refined  pleasures  of  taste  and  intellect,  and 
felt  no  desire  to  mingle  in  the  gay  scenes  of  fashion  or 
Avorldly  enjoyments.  When  asked  by  any  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, when  they  intended  to  "  come  out,"  as  it  is 
termed,  they  would  reply  "never."  "Then  you  must 
not  expect  to  be  married,"  said  their  gay  friends,  "  it  is 
necessary  for  every  one  who  wishes  to  make  a  good 
match,  to  go  out  into  society  very  frequently.  The  gen- 
tlemen, you  know,  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  seek  out 
for  wives,  so  that  those  who  wish  to  become  wives  must 
come  before  their  notice.  As  the  mountain  would  not  go 
to  Mahomet,  Mahomet  must  go  to  the  mountain." 

"  If  that  be  the  alternative,"  said  Mary,  "  I  shall  rest 
quite  contented  in  my  own  place,  without  a  wish  to  win 
or  be  won.  I  see  nothing  dreadful  in  the  idea  of  remain- 
ing unmarried,  or  even  in  anticipating  the  title  of  '  old 
maid.'  I  have  had  dreams,  and  made  fancy  sketches  like 
most  of  us  do,  but  when  I  come  down  to  sober  reality,  I 
think  it  doubtful  whether  I  shall  ever  meet  one  who  will 
satisfy  my  fastidious  taste,  and  if  I  should,  he  would  in 
all  probability  never  take  a  fancy  to  me,  so  that  I  never 
give  myself  any  uneasiness  on  the  subject."  Mary  was 
the  entire  reverse  of  what  is  called  "  a  susceptible  young 
lady,"  and  there  was  therefore  no  danger  of  her  ever 
giving  her  heart  where  her  reason  disapproved.  She 
possessed  almost  an  intuitive  perception  of  character,  and 
a  soundness  of  judgment  which  enabled  her  to  form  a 
true  estimate  of  men  and  things.  But  Ellen,  being  more 
imaginative  than  Mary,  viewed  every  one  through  the 
medium  of  her  own  fancy,  and  too  often  invested  them 


120  MARY   AND    ELLEN    GROSVENOR. 

with  virtues  not  their  own.  It  was  this  that  led  the 
gentle  Ellen  to  yield  up  the  rich  treasures  of  her  heart, 
to  one  who  eventually  proved  unworthy  of  her.  Edmund 
Bolton  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  had  studied  the  fe- 
male character  in  all  its  phases.  He  knew  how  to 
accommodate  himself  to  every  taste,  and  to  appear  to 
every  one  all  that  they  wished.  He  was  captivated  by 
Ellen's  beauty,  and  knew  also  there  was  a  prospect  of 
her  inheriting  a  large  fortune  at  her  father's  death. 
These  were  the  incentives  that  led  him  to  use  every 
means  to  win  her  for  his  own,  and  his  endeavors  at  last 
proved  successful. 

Ellen  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  She  loved  Edmund 
Bolton  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  woman's  early  love, 
and  fondly  imagined  him  all  she  thought  him  to  be. 
But  the  illusion  vanished  before  she  was  long  a  wife,  for 
when  once  in  possession  of  the  prize  he  had  sought,  the 
husband  thought  it  no  longer  necessary  to  maintain 
towards  her  the  character  he  had  assumed.  He  had  no 
longer  any  motive  for  controlling  his  violent  temper,  or 
for  repressing  his  impatience  whenever  she  unconsciously 
excited  it,  for  she  was  now  irrevocably  his  own.  Mary 
accompanied  her  sister  to  her  new  home,  and  remained 
some  time  with  her,  and  soon  discovered  with  an  aching 
heart  that  Edmund  Bolton  was  not  the  man  to  make  her 
beloved  sister  a  happy  woman.  The  delicacy  and  re- 
finement of  their  feelings,  and  the  high  sense  of  propriety 
in  conduct  and  manners,  which  had  always  governed  the 
society  to  which  the  sisters  had  been  accustomed  at  home, 
rendered  the  contrast  with  the  levity  and  freedom  of 
Edmund  and  his  companions,  a  striking  and  painful  one. 
Ellen's  love  for  her  betrothed,  was  characterized  by  the 
blushing  reserve  and  timid  respect  peculiar  to  a  nature 
like  hers,  she  loved  to  look  up  to  him  as  a  being  superior 
to  herself,  and  felt  as  if  all  should  regard  him  with  equal 


MARY    AND   ELLEN    GROSVENOR.  121 

veneration.  But  when  she  found  that  he,  whom  she 
imagined  to  be  all  that  was  noble  and  dignified,  could 
become  the  trifling,  romping  companion  of  giddy  girls, 
the  disappointment  was  as  unexpected  as  it  was  painful. 
When  she  saw  the  husband,  the  pressure  of  whose  lips 
was  sacred  to  her  as  an  evidence  of  his  affection,  freely 
bestowing  the  same  evidence  on  other  females  of  his 
acquaintance,  when  she  beheld  the  brow  upon  which  she 
could  not  imprint  a  timid  kiss,  without  bringing  blushes 
to  her  cheeks,  familiarly  kissed  by  strangers,  she  was 
startled  from  her  dream  of  happiness,  and  her  confidence 
in  his  attachment  became  weakened.  He  saw  the  pain 
that  it  gave  her,  and  being  unable  to  appreciate  the  deli- 
cacy and  refinement  of  her  deep  affection,  he  continued 
his  flirtations,  sneeringly  smiling  at  the  effects  they  pro- 
duced in  disturbing  her  peace.  For  his  own  amusement 
he  recklessly  trifled  with  her  feelings,  but  the  love  of  a 
devoted  heart  is  not  a  thing  to  be  trifled  with.  She 
could  have  borne  with  his  impatient  spirit,  and  his  out- 
bursts of  temper,  by  learning  to  look  on  them  as  natural 
infirmities,  which  called  for  her  compassion,  but  when 
she  saw  him  thus  deliberately  destroying  her  trust  in  his 
love,  for  the  petty  gratification  of  the  moment,  a  feeling 
of  contempt  for  him  came  over  her  involuntarily  and 
chilled  the  current  of  her  affections  to  their  utmost  depths. 
Edmund  Bolton  was  intensely  selfish.  His  own  ease 
and  his  own  gratification  were  all  that  he  thought  of,  or 
cared  for.  He  exacted  the  most  slavish  attention  to  his 
wants  and  caprices,  and  all  that  his  wife  did  for  him  was 
received  without  acknowledgment  or  gratitude.  And 
often  the  only  return  she  met  with,  was  bitter  sarcasm, 
if  her  services  happened  to  fall  short  of  what  he  unrea- 
sonably required.  Poor  Ellen  bore  all  this  with  the 
patience  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit — she  did  all  that  she 
could,  but  without  the  hope  or  expectation  of  pleasing 
him  or  satisfying  his  demands  on  her  time  and  attention. 
11 


122  MARY   AND    ELLEN    GROSVENOR. 

Mary's  proud  and  independent  spirit  could  scarcely 
brook  the  treatment  of  her  sister  in  silence.  It  was  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  refrain  from  reproof,  but  this  she  knew 
would  only  add  to  Ellen's  unhappiness,  and  she  pru- 
dently forebore  all  expression  of  her  feelings  towards 
him.  When  the  period  of  her  return  to  her  parents  had 
arrived,  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  her 
beloved  sister,  and  as  she  pressed  her  hand  in  bidding 
her  farewell,  the  tears  that  started  to  Ellen's  eyes  spoke 
all  that  her  tongue  had  refused  to  utter.  It  was  her  hus- 
band that  caused  her  grief,  and  she  had  kept  all  that  she 
suffered  close  within  her  own  heart,  not  even  breathing 
one  word  of  complaint  against  him,  to  the  beloved  com- 
panion with  whom  she  had  been  accustomed  from  infancy, 
to  share  every  thought  and  every  sorrow. 

When  Mary  returned  home,  her  grief  at  the  loss  of 
her  sister's  society  was  bitterly  felt.  It  would  have  been 
so,  had  she  been  assured  that  Ellen  had  only  exchanged 
one  happy  home  for  another;  but  oh,  how  much  bitter- 
ness was  added  to  her  unhappiness,  when  she  knew  that 
the  dearly  beloved  associate  of  her  infancy  and  woman- 
hood had  been  cruelly  taken  from  kindred,  whose  ten- 
derness and  affection  had  made  her  life  like  a  pleasant 
dream,  to  spend  the  remainder  of  her  days  with  one  who 
was  incapable  of  loving  or  appreciating  her  as  she 
deserved. 

Several  months  after  Mary  had  left  E:len,  she  received 
the  following  brief  letter  from  her,  whose  handwriting 
bore  painful  evidence  that  it  was  penned  in  much  weak- 
ness and  exhaustion. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  dear  Mary,  to  ask  you  to  come  to  me 
in  this  inclement  season ;  but  I  am  sick,  very  sick.  I 
want  some  one  near  and  dear  as  you  are  to  nurse  and 
attend  to  me — the  servants  do  as  well  as  they  can,  but 
they  are  inexperienced  and  unskillful.  My  husband  has 


-dT  t.       Ok 

ipleas- 
,eya, 


MARY    AND   ELLEN   GROSVENOR.  123 

never  been  accustomed  to  a  sick  room,  and,  of  course,  I 
cannot  expect  him  to  be  with  me,  as  he  knows  not  what 
to  do  for  me.  My  physician  said  this  morning  that  I 
must  send  for  my  mother  or  sister,  as  good  nursing  was 
necessary  for  my  recovery.  This  must  be  my  apology, 
dear  Mary,  for  my  selfishness  in  asking  you  to  leave  a 
comfortable  fireside,  and  expose  yourself  to  the  unpl* 
ant  voyage  across  the  bay  at  this  season." 

When  Mary  showed  the  letter  to  her  parents,  the 
first  refused  to  let  her  go,  telling  her  it  would  be  hazard- 
ous to  attempt  to  reach  her  sister.  But  Mary's  resolution 
was  taken — her  sister  needed  her  assistance,  and  nothing 
was  deemed  a  sufficient  obstacle  to  deter  her.  Her  father 
finding  her  determined  to  incur  all  risks,  made  inquiries 
for  a  suitable  opportunity.  He  found  a  small  vessel 
which  was  to  sail  on  the  following  day,  and  as  the  cap- 
tain thought  he  would  be  able  to  make  a  short  and  suc- 
cessful trip,  Mr.  Grosvenor  at  last  consented  that  she 
should  go. 

It  was  upon  a  bright,  cloudless  day,  in  early  winter, 
that  Mary  embarked  in  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  her 
to  her  sister.  The  wind  blew  freshly  from  the  shore, 
and  the  captain  being  anxious  to  take  advantage  of  it, 
hurried  the  preparations  for  departure.  As  soon  as  all 
was  in  readiness,  the  word  was  given,  and  the  boat 
started  onward  in  its  pathway  through  the  waters,  as  if 
rejoicing  in  its  freedom  from  the  tether  which  had  bound 
it.  Mary  felt  all  that  exhilarating  excitement  which  is 
peculiar  to  the  sensation  of  sailing,  and  she  sat  upon  the 
deck  to  enjoy  the  delightful  emotion.  The  breeze  flapped 
the  white  sails  and  whistled  through  the  rigging  with  a 
wild,  melancholy  sound  ;  sometimes  with  a  shrill,  scream- 
ing note,  like  the  cry  of  a  sea-bird,  and  then  sinking  into 
those  low,  mournful  tones,  such  as  the  mysterious  and 
many-voiced  wind  alone  can  bring  forth.  The  light  bark 


c: 


124  MARY   AND   ELLEN   GROSVENOR. 

glided  rapidly  through  the  dashing  waves,  as  if  it  were 
borne  upon  wings,  and  Mary  gladly  watched  each 
swiftly  receding  point  as  they,  passed  by,  feeling  that 
every  moment  brought  her  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  be- 
loved Ellen. 

The  wind  increased  and  blew  so  strongly,  that  the 
.plain  was  obliged  to  slacken  his  sails, — for  fear  of  the 
fety  of  his  little  vessel.  Night  was  drawing  near,  and 
he  vvas  still  many  miles  from  their  destined  port.  The 
cold  had  become  so  intense  since  the  morning,  that  he 
was  unwilling  to  cast  anchor,  lest  they  might  be  locked 
in  the  ice  which  would  rapidly  form  around  them,  as 
soon  as  the  wind  was  lulled.  He  knew  not  whether  to 
remain  where  they  were,  or  to  push  forward  to  the  near- 
est point  of  land  ;  each  alternative  was  a  dangerous  and 
doubtful  one,  but  he  decided  in  choosing  the  latter,  as  he 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  coast,  and  hoped  to  reach 
it  before  night  had  set  in.  It  was  an  exciting  moment. 
At  the  hazard  of  engulfing  his  vessel  in  the  roaring 
waters  around  him,  he  put  on  more  sail,  and  as  they 
flew  onward,  the  rushing  waves  every  now  and  then 
would  dash  over  the  deck,  threatening  to  draw  in  the 
vessel  after  them  as  they  receded.  Dark  clouds  were 
gathering  over  the  sky,  adding  to  the  shadows  of  ap- 
proaching night,  and  the  stout  hearts  of  the  captain  and 
his  men  began  to  quail  at  the  impending  danger.  Large 
masses  of  ice  which  had  been  loosened  from  the  rivers 
by  the  mild  weather  of  one  or  two  previous  days,  were 
now  seen  by  the  dubious  twilight,  rapidly  driving 
towards  them  by  a  sudden  change  in  the  wind,  and  they 
felt  that  all  hope  was  lost.  Mary  sat  in  the  cabin,  con- 
scious of  her  danger,  yet  calmly  awaiting  the  result  in 
all  the  unshrinking  fortitude  of  woman,  strengthened  by 
the  confiding  trust  of  a  Christian.  A  sudden  shock,  and 
a  wild  piercing  shriek  from  the  men  told  that  death  was 


MARY   AND   ELLEN    SROSVENOR. 

before  her.  Mary  was  unconscious  of  all  that  followed, 
until  she  found  herself  on  the  shore,  supported  by  the 
captain,  beside  a  fire  that  was  kindled  on  the  beach. 
The  sailors  had  wrapped  her  in  the  only  blanket  they 
could  procure,  and  had  even  taken  off  their  own  coats  to 
add  to  her  comfort.  As  soon  as  she  opened  her  eyes, 
the  old  captain  exclaimed,  "  Thank  God,  the  dear  lady 
lives !"  Mary's  heart  responded  to  the  feeling,  and  her 
prayers  of  gratitude  arose  to  Him  who  had  thus  miracu- 
lously preserved  her. 

It  was  a  wild  scene, — that  midnight  watch  on  the 
lonely  shore  !  A  wide  waste  of  snow  covered  all  the 
land,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  over  which  the  full 
moon  was  pouring  her  silvery  light.  Tall  trees  stood 
here  and  there,  whose  leafless  branches  were  whitened 
by  the  feathery  flakes  that  rested  on  them ;  and  these 
were  interspersed  with  clumps  of  the  dark  pine  and 
cedar,  through  whose  fringed  boughs  the  wind  was 
wailing,  in  low  mournful  tones  ;  while  farther  off,  the 
gloomy  waters  were  dashing  on  the  frozen  beach  with  a 
sullen  roar,  as  if  madly  disappointed  of  the  prey  which 
had  been  so  lately  rescued  from  their  power.  Before 
her,  was  the  bright  fire,  casting  its  crimson  radiance  upon 
the  snow,  with  its  flames  curling  round  the  fragments  of 
the  wreck,  that  had  been  cast  on  the  shore ;  and  ever 
and  anon  rising  in  renewed  brilliancy  by  the  addition  of 
the  scattered  boughs  that  had  been  torn  from  the  forest 
by  the  storm.  The  captain  and  his  men  were  conversing 
round  the  blaze,  enlivened  by  its  grateful  warmth,  and 
exchanging  their  mutual  congratulations  on  their  unex- 
pected deliverance  from  the  dangers  that  surrounded 
them.  And  as  Mary  looked  on  them,  she  saw  with 
thankfulness,  that  not  one  had  been  lost.  As  soon  as  the 
day  dawned,  the  Captain  sent  one  of  his  men  to  find  the 
nearest  dwelling,  that  Mary  might  have  a  shelter  from 
11* 


126  MARY   AND   ELLEN    GROSVENOR. 

the  weather,  until  he  could  provide  some  means  of  con- 
veying her  to  the  place,  where  her  sister  resided.  The 
sailor  was  successful  in  his  search,  and  returned  with  an 
invitation  to  Mary  from  a  hospitable  farmer  who  lived 
several  miles  distant.  After  an  hour's  walk  she  was 
kindly  received  by  the  family,  who  provided  every  thing 
necessary  to  her  comfort,  and  urged  her  to  remain  with 
them  until  she  had  entirely  recovered  from  her  fatigue 
and  exposure.  But  when  the  worthy  old  Captain  arrived 
with  the  welcome  intelligence  that  he  had  procured  a 
carriage,  and  was  ready  to  accompany  her  as  soon  as 
she  felt  able  to  travel,  her  anxiety  to  see  her  dear  Ellen 
would  not  admit  of  any  longer  delay. 

After  a  long  ride  of  forty  miles,  Mary  had  the  happi- 
ness of  embracing  her  dear  Ellen,  and  of  finding  her 
better  than  she  was,  at  the  time  the  letter  was  written, — 
but  yet  she  was  altered,  sadly,  sadly  altered  by  sickness 
and  suffering.  Her  disease  was  one  that  required  un- 
disturbed quiet,  and  mental  repose, — and  for  many,  many 
days  did  Mary  sit  by  the  solitary  bedside  of  her  sister, 
and  watch  and  wait  on  her  with  the  keenest  anxiety,  and 
with  alternate  hope  and  fear  ;  excited  by  the  frequent 
changes  that  came  over  her.  Edmund  Bolton  seldom 
came  to  see  his  wife,  for  he  could  not  bear  the  solitude 
of  a  sick  room.  His  evenings  were  spent  abroad  in 
scenes  of  merriment,  and  his  much  enduring  wife  was  so 
.accustomed  to  his  neglect  and  desertion  in  her  hours  of 
health,  that  she  thought  it  no  strange  thing,  that  he 
should  absent  himself  from  her,  when  sickness  had  ren- 
dered her  incapable  of  ministering  to  him. 

When  Ellen  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  receive  the 
calls  of  her  acquaintance,  she  frequently  heard  of  her 
husband's  gayety  in  society,  and  a  giddy  girl  one  day 
said  to  her,  "  Mr.  Bolton  and  I  had  quite  a  flirtation  at 
ithe  ball  last  night ;  he  has  engaged  me  for  his  second 


MARY   AND   ELLEN    GROSVENOR.  127 

wife."  "  The  opportunity  of  fulfilling  your  engage- 
ment," Ellen  replied,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  may  be  nearer 
than  either  of  you  anticipate."  There  was  a  time  when 
this  evidence  of  the  heartless  levity  of  her  husband,  and 
his  cold  indifference  to  her  sufferings,  would  have  pierced 
her  heart  with  sudden  agony;  but  she  had  so  long 
grown  familiar  with  these  things,  that  her  feelings  seem- 
ed to  have  become  paralyzed  to  insensibility.  She 
looked  forward  to  the  grave  as  a  release  from  mental  and 
physical  suffering ;  and  the  fears  expressed  by  her  phy- 
sician met  with  a  willing  credence  on  her  part,  which 
continued  even  when  there  was  a  hope  that  she  might 
again  be  restored  to  health.  The  calmness  with  which 
Ellen  referred  to  her  own  death,  in  her  reply  to  her 
thoughtless  visitor,  startled  Mary ;  and  the  indignation 
she  felt  against  the  giddy  trifler,  who  could  jest  on  such 
a  subject,  at  such  a  time,  could  scarcely  be  repressed, — 
a  bitter  sarcasm  struggled  to  find  utterance,  but  she 
looked  on  her  sister,  and  for  her  sake,  kept  silence. 

Mary  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  Ellen  should  remain 
an  uncomplaining  victim  to  the  unkindness  and  injustice 
of  Edmund  Bolton.  In  her  love  for  her  sister,  she  forgot 
that  Ellen  was  a  wife, — but  in  all  her  trials,  Ellen  never 
ceased  to  remember  that  there  were  obligations  still  due 
to  her  husband,  even  if  his  were  neglected.  Mary 
wished  her  sister  to  return  with  her  in  the  Spring,  and 
often  entreated  her  to  do  so,  but  Ellen  steadily  refused, — 
"  No,"  said  she,  "  my  duty  to  my  husband,  requires 
that  I  should  not  leave  him,  even  for  a  few  weeks. 
"  Talk  not  thus,  dear  Ellen,"  replied  Mary,  "  your  du- 
ties are  cancelled  by  his  conduct,  and  you  are  not  called 
on  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  one  who  is  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating all  you  have  done  and  suffered  for  him."  "  My 
Bible  dear  Mary  does  not  tell  me  this,"  said  Ellen,  "  I 
am  his  wife,  and  my  course  is  prescribed  both  by  reason 
and  religion." 


128          MARY  AND  ELLEN  GROSVENOR. 

Mary  knew  that  Edmund  was  wholly  devoid  of  virtue 
in  principle,  or  action ;  and  she  thought  Ellen  would  be 
justified  in  leaving  him.  Although  she  refrained  from 
upbraiding  him  in  her  sister's  presence,  yet  she  took  the 
first  opportunity,  when  she  saw  him  alone,  to  reproach 
him  keenly  for  her  sister's  unhappiness.  "  I  have  been 
persuading  Ellen,"  said  she  to  him,  "  to  return  to  her 
old  home,  that  she  may  be  restored  to  herself  in  its 
atmosphere  of  peace  and  affection.  You  found  her  a 
beloved  inmate  of  a  happy  home ;  and  you  took  her  to 
yourself,  to  make  her  a  miserable  woman."  "  She  has 
my  consent  to  go,"  he  coldly  replied,  "  for  a  sickly  wife 
is  a  dull  companion,  and  in  my  pleasures  I  am  wholly 
independent  of  Mrs.  Bolton's  society."  In  saying  this, 
he  abruptly  quitted  the  room.  His  utter  heartlessness  so 
unfeelingly  expressed,  struck  like  an  arrow  into  Mary's 
soul,  and  in  painful  sympathy  for  her  sister's  fate,  she 
wept  long  and  bitterly. 

She  had  the  consolation  of  seeing  Ellen  restored  to 
health  before  she  left  her, — but  soon  after  her  return 
home,  a  sudden  bereavement  made  that  home  a  scene  of 
gloomy  desolation.  Her  beloved  father  died  after  a  short 
illness,  leaving  his  widow  and  daughters  overwhelmed 
by  the  unexpected  stroke.  The  afflicted  mother  did  not 
long  survive  his  loss ;  and  Mary  was  left  an  orphan  in 
her  solitary  home.  Recent  losses  in  her  father's  com- 
mercial transactions  had  taken  so  much  from  his  estate, 
that  it  was  supposed  there  would  be  but  a  small  portion 
left  for  the  daughters.  Edmund  Bolton's  disappointment 
was  visited  upon  his  wife  ;  and  he  added  to  the  grief  she 
felt  in  having  lost  her  beloved  parents,  by  his  own 
increased  harshness.  Ellen  had  given  birth  to  two 
lovely  twin  daughters,  a  few  weeks  previous  to  the 
death  of  her  parents,  and  these  were  the  only  earthly 
sources  of  consolation  that  was  left  her, — for  her  hus- 
band had  denied  her  request  to  have  Mary  with  her. 


MARY  AND  ELLEN  GROSVENOR.          129 

Edmund  Bolton's  health  had  been  failing  for  some 
time,  and  the  increased  irritability  of  his  temper  caused 
his  uncomplaining  wife  every  variety  of  suffering  he 
could  inflict  on  her.  At  last  he  was  taken  ill  of  a  dan- 
gerous fever,  from  which  it  was  thought  he  could  not 
recover,  as  his  constitution  had  become  so  much  weak- 
ened by  his  previous  indisposition.  Ellen  watched  by 
his  bed-side  day  and  night,  and  nursed  him  with  as 
much  tenderness  and  devoted  attention  as  she  could  have 
done,  had  he  been  to  her  all  that  he  ought  to  have  been. 
She  tried  gently  and  gradually  to  prepare  him  for  the 
probable  result  of  his  disease,  but  apparently  without 
any  effect.  When  she  offered  to  read  to  him,  he  refused 
to  listen,  and  could  not  bear  the  slightest  allusion  to 
death.  The  only  evidence  of  a  better  state  of  feeling 
toward  Ellen,  was  the  wish  he  expressed  that  she  would 
send  for  Mary  to  relieve  her,  as  he  plainly  saw  that  his 
wife  was  nearly  exhausted  by  her  unremitted  attend- 
ance. Ellen  gladly  availed  herself  of  this  permission, 
and  in  a  few  days  Mary  was  with  her  sister.  As  Ed- 
mund became  weaker  and  weaker,  under  the  slow  fever 
which  was  destroying  him,  he  felt  all  that  his  wife  was 
to  him ;  a  feeling  of  remorse  often  came  over  him, — and 
at  times,  visions  of  his  past  life  haunted  his  memory.  He 
was  too  feeble  to  give  expression  to  his  feelings  except 
in  occasional  broken  accents, — but  oh,  how  eagerly  did 
his  poor  wife  drink  in  these  faltering  words ;  earnestly 
ponder  them  over  in  her  heart,  and  treasure  them  up  for 
future  consolation.  He  declined  rapidly  the  week  after 
Mary's  arrival ;  and  breathed  his  last,  expressing  peni- 
tence for  the  past ;  but  no  words  of  hope  in  futurity. 
Poor  Ellen  sought  comfort  in  clinging  to  his  broken  ex- 
pressions of  remorse  and  conviction,  and  she  confidently 
hoped  for  him,  where  others  were  afraid  to  hope,  yet  un- 
willing to  doubt.  All  his  sins  against  her  were  forgiven 


130  MARY    AND    ELLEN    GROSVENOR. 

and  forgotten,  one  or  two  kind  words, — a  slight  pressure 
of  his  hanc$  as  a  token  of  gratitude  for  her  devotion, — a 
few  tears  shed  for  the  past, — these  were  treasured  in  her 
heart,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  his  neglect  and  unkindness. 
She  only  thought  of  him  as  she  once  fondly  imagined 
him,  when  he  was  the  lover  of  her  youth, — and  mourned 
his  loss  as  if  he  had  realized  her  dearest  expectations, 
and  fulfilled  all  her  brightest  dreams. 

After  Ellen  had  become  sufficiently  calm,  to  examine 
into  the  state  of  her  affairs,  and  to  arrange  plans  for  the 
future,  she  found  that  the  portion  left  to  her  was  too 
small  for  the  maintenance  of  herself  and  her  children. 
She  roused  herself  from  the  effects  of  her  grief,  for  she 
knew  there  was  a  necessity  for  exertion.  She  thought 
over  several  modes  of  supporting  herself,  and  of  provid- 
ing for  the  future  education  of  her  daughters.  When 
she  suggested  these  to  Mary  for  her  judgment  and  coun- 
sel, Mary  replied,  "  No,  my  dear  Ellen,  your  health  is  too 
much  shattered  to  make  such  attempts,  you  are  not  equal 
to  these  exertions,  all  that  I  have  is  yours,  and  if  it  be 
not  sufficient  for  our  support,  I  will  open  a  school  in  our 
former  happy  home,  and  this  will  supply  us  with  ample 
means.  I  am  strong1  and  healthy,  and  can  endure  con- 
finement and  fatigue,  but  you  are  wholly  unfit  for  any  of 
the  plans  you  have  proposed." 

Soon  after  Mary  had  brought  her  widowed  sister  and 
her  infant  daughters  to  the  home  which  was  still  her 
own,  she  commenced  her  proposed  plan  with  all  the 
energy  of  a  determined  and  persevering  spirit.  She  had 
the  satisfaction  of  gaining  the  requisite  number  of  pupils, 
and  found  that  her  annual  income  would  be  more  than 
sufficient  to  supply  all  their  wants,  and  would  even  allow 
them  to  keep  up  the  refined  elegancies  of  their  youthful 
home.  Ellen's  health  continued  feeble  for  several  years, 
and  Mary  had  brought  her  sister  to  the  Springs  where  I 


MARY  AND  ELLEN  GROSVENOE.         131 

met  them,  in  the  hope  of  restoring  her  languid  frame  to 
its  healthful  energies.  Ellen  was  much  benefitted  by 
her  visit,  but  her  anxiety  to  return  to  her  beloved  daugh- 
ters, whom  she  had  left  in  the  charge  of  a  faithful  ser- 
vant, hastened  her  return  much  earlier  than  Mary  wished. 

Before  we  parted,  they  made  me  promise  to  visit  them 
before  my  return  home,  and  I  soon  after  availed  myself 
of  their  pressing  invitation.  The  place  where  they 
resided  was  beautifully  situated  near  the  suburbs  of  the 
city,  on  a  lofty  eminence  which  commanded  a  fine  pros- 
pect of  the  bay,  the  river,  and  its  wooded  shores.  The 
noble  old  oaks  that  shaded  the  lawn  gave  an  air  of  rural 
seclusion,  although  the  church  spires  and  chimneys  of 
the  city  were  visible  here  and  there  through  their  aged 
trunks.  The  time  for  re-assembling  Mary's  pupils  had 
not  yet  arrived,  and  I  found  the  two  sisters  enjoying  the 
sweets  of  leisure,  and  employing  their  hours  in  those 
refined  and  elegant  pursuits  which  had  made  the  happi- 
ness of  their  youthful  days.  It  was  delightful  to  see 
these  devoted  sisters  again  re-united  in  one  home,  after 
their  painful  separation.  Ellen's  twin  daughters,  Mary 
and  Ellen,  were  two  lovely,  interesting  children,  and  the 
affection  with  which  they  were  treated  by  both,  would 
have  left  a  stranger  in  doubt  as  to  which  was  the  mother. 

After  a  delightful  visit,  I  bade  farewell  to  these  affec- 
tionate sisters  and  the  dear  children,  with  the  hope  of 
their  fulfilling  a  promise  of  spending  the  next  summer's 
vacation  at  Glenwood.  Both  Mary  and  Ellen  are  my 
frequent  correspondents,  and  from  the  latter  I  have 
learned  that  Mary  has  had  several  offers  of  marriage, 
from  men  of  high  standing  and  moral  worth,  but  she  has 
refused  them  all,  having  determined  to  live  only  for  Ellen 
and  her  children.  Her  devotion  to  her  dear  sister's  hap- 
piness has  met  its  reward  in  the  consciousness  of  having 
fulfilled  a  sacred  duty.  She  is  beloved  and  respected  by 


132  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

all  with  whom  she  associates,  and  one  of  the  happiest 
women  among  my  acquaintance,  is  the  noble-minded  and 
self-sacrificing  Mary  Grosvenor. 


CHAPTER     IX. 

ELIZABETH  HARRINGTON,  OR  THE    HISTORY    OF  A  COQUETTE. 

And  is  it  thus  that  woman's  heart 

Can  trifle  with  its  dearest  part, 

Its  own  pure  sympathies  ?— can  fling 

The  poisoned  arrow  from  the  string 

In  utter  heartlessness  around, 

And  mock,  or  think  not  of  the  wound  ? 

L.  E.  LANDON. 

WHILE  I  was  staying  with  Mary  Grosvenor  and  her 
sister,  at  their  delightful  house,  we  were  one  day  seated 
in  the  library,  alternately  reading  aloud  one  of  the  new 
works  that  had  just  appeared,  when  the  children  came 
running  into  the  room,  exclaiming  in  their  infantine  glee, 
"  Mamma,  cousin  Elizabeth  and  her  two  little  girls  are 
coming."  We  laid  aside  our  book,  and  the  sisters  went 
out  to  meet  their  visitor.  When  she  entered  the  room 
where  I  was  sitting,  Mary  introduced  her  to  me  as  my 
old  schoolmate,  their  cousin  Elizabeth.  I  never  could 
have  recognized  the  gay  Elizabeth  Harrington,  in  the 
careworn,  faded  woman  I  saw  before  me.  She  knew  me 
immediately,  for  owing  to  my  peaceful,  happy  life,  years 
had  passed  lightly  over  me.  Elizabeth  remained  several 
days  with  us,  and  before  we  parted  she  gave  me  the  fol- 
lowing history  of  her  life. 

"  In  my  history,  my  dear  Ellen,"  said  she,  "  you  will 
see  one  of  the  many  unhappy  instances  of  a  marriage  for 
wealth,  without  affection.  Oh !  that  ambitious  parents 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  133 

who  look  for  riches  alone,  as  the  one  thing  needful  in 
the  man  who  seeks  the  hand  of  their  daughters,  would 
only  pause  ere  they  urge  them  to  take  the  fatal  step,  and 
remember  that  money  cannot  purchase  peace  or  happi- 
ness. And  would  that  the  gay  and  thoughtless  girl  who 
permits  herself  to  be  blinded  by  the  idea  of  living  in 
splendor,  may  take  warning  by  others,  and  recollect  that 
she  has  a  heart  and  affections,  whose  claims  will  one 
day  or  other  be  deeply  and  painfully  felt,  when  she  is  no 
longer  free  to  meet  them. 

"  Soon  after  I  parted  from  my  schoolmates  at  Oakwood, 
I  was  plunged  into  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life.  Visit- 
ing or  receiving  visits  by  day,  and  attending  balls,  routs, 
and  parties  at  night,  I  had  not  a  leisure  moment  for 
thought  or  reflection.  The  aliment  of  flattery  and  admi- 
ration upon  which  I  lived,  created  such  a  restlessness 
and  thirst  for  worldly  amusements,  that  I  could  not  spend 
a  single  evening  at  home  without  company,  without 
suffering  from  ennui  and  unhappiness.  My  gayety  and 
animation  made  me  popular  in  society,  and  I  was  gener- 
ally the  reigning  belle.  My  vanity  was  so  much  excited 
by  the  number  of  offers  I  received,  that  one  of  my  first 
endeavors  on  being  introduced  to  a  gentleman,  was  to 
study  his  tastes  and  character,  that  I  might  be  successful 
in  winning  his  heart.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  met 
with  one  whom  I  could  love,  but  the  eclat  of  adding 
another  and  another  to  my  list  of  rejected  suitors,  was 
the  only  incentive  that  led  me  onward  in  my  thoughtless 
career.  My  parents  continually  held  before  me  the 
temptation  of  making  a  splendid  alliance,  and  as  long  as 
they  knew  my  heart  was  free,  my  coquetry  received  no  re- 
proof, and  their  pride  was  gratified  by  the  number  of  my 
admirers.  I  cannot,  I  believe,  reproach  myself  with 
having  broken  many  hearts,  for  the  greater  portion  of 
these  were  caught  in  my  toils  more  by  their  fancy  than 
12 


134  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

their  affections.  For  who  that  was  capable  of  loving 
devotedly,  would  have  sought  the  heart  of  a  gay,  giddy 
creature,  such  as  I  appeared  when  mingling  with  the 
world.  But  there  was  one  different,  far  different  from 
all  these,  with  whom  I  afterwards  became  acquainted, 
while  staying  in  the  country  with  my  Aunt,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  restoring  my  health  after  a  winter's  dissipation. 
The  debility  under  which  I  was  laboring,  gave  a  pen- 
siveness  and  softness  to  my  manners  that  were  foreign 
to  my  character,  and  after  we  had  met  a  few  times  I  saw 
that  he  had  become  interested  in  me.  He  was  on  a 
visit  to  a  friend  of  his  father's,  and  had  also  come  as  a 
seeker  for  health  among  the  breezy  hills  and  green  val- 
leys of  the  neighborhood.  A  long  and*  unremitting  devo- 
tion to  his  studies,  had  exhausted  his  strength  and 
enfeebled  his  frame,  and  he  sought  the  restoration  of  his 
physical  energies  by  constant  exercise  in  the  pure,  fresh 
air  of  the  country.  He  had  received  a  wreath  of  fame 
from  the  hands  of  his  medical  professors,  in  their  united 
testimony  to  his  talents  and  acquirements,  but  its  laurels 
infused  a  poison,  to  whose  venom  I  afterwards  added  a 
still  more  deadly  draught.  Poor  Alfred  Thornton !  I 
cannot  yet  think  of  him  without  emotion,  cold  and  callous 
as  my  heart  has  become !  No  one  could  have  known 
him  without  loving  him.  To  all  the  high  mental  culti- 
vation and  intellectual  power  of  man,  he  added  the  gen- 
tleness and  sensibility  of  woman.  From  his  exclusive 
devotion  to  study,  he  had  never  mingled  in  female  society, 
and  he  first  awakened  to  its  influence  after  his  unfortu- 
nate acquaintance  with  me.  I  was  deeply  interested  in 
him  from  his  superiority  to  the  generality  of  the  gentlemen 
whom  I  had  known,  and  I  endeavored  to  appear  to  him 
all  that  he  desired  a  woman  to  be.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  I  had  occasion  for  the  knowledge  that  our  dear  Mrs. 
Norville  so  successfully  labored  to  impart,  and  I  brought 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  135 

forward  my  almost  forgotten  acquisitions  to  engage  his 
attention,  and  to  enchain  his  heart,  by  the  belief  that  I 
felt  an  intellectual  sympathy  in  his  love  for  science  and 
literature.  My  heart  was  not  wholly  dead  to  the  glorious 
works  of  creation,  and  I  labored  to  impress  him  with  the 
idea,  that  my  admiration  equalled  his  own  passionate 
idolatry  of  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful.  He  rambled 
with  me  over  hill  and  dale,  through  the  wild  solitude  of 
the  upland  forests,  or  beside  the  winding  stream  that 
gurgled  through  the  green  meadows,  and  pointed  out  his 
favorite  scenes,  while  I  assumed  an  enthusiasm  I  did  not 
feel.  He  read  to  me  the  glowing  thoughts  of  genius,  and 
I  assented  with  affected  warmth,  to  all  that  he  felt  and 
enjoyed.  He  drew  from  nature  with  the  skill  and  taste 
of  an  artist,  and  he  sketched  each  lovely  spot  whose 
beauties  had  become  doubly  endeared  to  him,  from  our 
having  admired  them  together. 

"  The  growing  attachment  that  he  felt  for  me,  gave  a 
new  impulse  to  his  energies,  and  his  health  improved  so 
rapidly,  that  he  thought  it  was  time  he  should  enter  upon 
the  arena  of  his  profession.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
evening  he  came  to  bid  us  farewell.  He  entreated  me  to 
visit  with  him  once  more  the  scenes  we  had  so  often 
enjoyed,  and  as  we  rambled  onward  he  unfolded  to  me 
his  plans  and  prospects  for  the  future. 

"  '  Never  before,  my  dear  Elizabeth,'  said  he,  '  did  I 
feel  the  misery  of  poverty.  In  my  high  aspirations,  I 
never  thought  of  this ;  but  as  incentive  to  unceasing  and 
strenuous  exertion,  I  ever  felt  it  a  glorious  thought  that  I 
should  be  the  creator  of  my  own  fame  and  fortune,  and  I 
proudly  said  that  I  would  be  indebted  to  no  one  for  the 
place  I  intended  to  fill  in  the  honor  and  estimation  of 
mankind.  I  felt  that  I  had  talents,  and  I  resolved  that 
these  should  win  me  a  name.  But  now  that  I  am  pain- 
fully conscious  of  how  much  I  am  deprived  by  my  want 


136  ELIZABETH   HARRINGTON. 

of  wealth,  that  this  must  deter  me  from  making  an  offer 
of  my  hand  to  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved,  the  thought 
of  my  poverty  is  madness  !  I  cannot  ask  you  to  share  it 
with  me.  I  could  not  endure  to  see  you  make  any  sacri- 
fice for  me,  but  can  you,  will  you  promise,  when  success 
shall  crown  my  exertions,  that  you  will  be  mine  !  The 
thought  of  this  will  be  an  incentive  tenfold  more  power- 
ful than  the  restless  stirrings  of  ambition,  and  this  sweet 
hope  will  soothe  every  care  and  lighten  every  toil  I  may 
have  to  endure. 

"  But  I  must  leave  you,  my  Elizabeth,  for  a  long  and 
weary  absence.  Here  there  is  no  prospect  for  a  young 
physician.  A  college  friend  has  written  me  that  there  is 
a  favorable  opening  in  one  of  the  Southern  States,  and  I 
have  consented  to  try  my  fortune  there.  Once  I  could 
not  so  easily  have  given  up  my  aspiring  dreams,  for  I 
longed  to  grapple  with  rival  competitors  of  equal  talent, 
in  the  noble  contest  for  fame ;  but  now,  wealth  has  be- 
come to  me  a  brighter  prize  than  fame  ;  and  I  can  now 
relinquish  the  intellectual  companionship  of  my  fellows, 
and  the  hope  of  distinction,  for  the  prospect  of  acquiring 
a  fortune  in  a  place  where  I  am  unknown.  I  can  give 
up  the  struggle  of  ambition,  but  how  can  T  leave  you, — 
Yes  !  it  must  be  so,  it  is  for  you  that  I  go.  We  are  both 
young  yet, 'dear  Elizabeth,  will  you  not  give  me  the 
sweet  assurance,  that  when  fortune  has  smiled  on  me, 
that  I  may  return  to  claim  you  as  my  betrothed,  my 
bride,  my  wife  ?  '  He  pressed  the  hand  he  held  in  his, 
and  the  slight  pressure  in  return  was  an  answer  to  his 
hopes. 

"  The  moon  had  risen,  before  we  reached  the  house, 
and  after  bidding  farewell  to  my  Aunt,  who  was  engaged 
in  her  domestic  duties  in  another  apartment,  he  returned 
to  me,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his,  respectfully  touched  it 
with  his  lips,  saying,  in  an  agitated  tone,  '  Farewell,  my 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  137 

Elizabeth,  you  will  hear  from  me  soon.'  He  hastened 
away,  as  if  to  conceal  his  emotions,  and  I  let  him  depart 
in  all  the  trusting  confidence  that  his  love  was  recipro- 
cated. 

"  Alfred  was  a  great  favorite  with  my  Aunt ;  and  she 
had  written  to  my  parents  respecting  him.  Her  letter  was 
soon  followed  by  one  to  me,  requesting  my  immediate 
presence  at  home.  As  my  visit  was  to  have  been  a  much 
longer  one,  I  supposed  that  there  was  some  special  reason 
for  their  urgency  in  insisting  on  my  speedy  return  to  the 
city.  Nor  was  my  supposition  unfounded,  for  not  being 
aware  of  Alfred  Thornton's  departure,  they  were  desirous 
of  separating  me  from  the  society  of  one,  whom  my 
Aunt  had  described  as  singularly  gifted  with  mental  and 
personal  attractions ;  fearful,  lest  in  the  absence  of  other 
admirers,  I  might  become  so  deeply  interested  in  him  as 
to  destroy  their  plans  for  my  matrimonial  prospects.  My 
father  had  lately  met  an  old  acquaintance  who  had  been 
residing  in  the  West  Indies  for  many  years,  and  had 
returned  to  become  a  resident  of  our  city.  He  was  said 
to  have  amassed  a  princely  fortune,  and  my  parents 
were  delighted  in  having  found  one,  who  was  regarded 
as  a  desirable  suitor  for  their  daughter's  hand.  He  was 
thought  to  be  in  search  of  a  wife ;  and  each  young 
lady  who  wished  for  a  splendid  establishment,  put  on  all 
her  graces  and  attractions  for  the  purpose  of  winning 
him.  My  parents  had  been  so  assiduous  in  their  atten- 
tions as  to  secure  his  frequent  visits ;  and  this  was  an 
additional  motive  for  my  recall  from  the  country,  that  I 
might  have  the  most  favorable  opportunity  of  distancing 
all  rival  competitors  for  the  wealth  of  the  rich  Mr.  Hor- 
ton.  The  next  day  after  my  return,  I  was  introduced  to 
him,  as  he  had  been  especially  invited  to  spend  the 
evening  at  our  house,  in  order  to  lose  no  time  in  making 
us  mutually  acquainted.  My  mother  had  taken  every 
12* 


138  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

means  to  secure  for  him  a  favorable  reception  from  me, 
by  the  most  extravagant  eulogies  of  his  generosity  and 
munificence,  and  an  animated  description  of  the  sumptu- 
ous residence  he  was  preparing  for  his  future  abode. 
And  in  expatiating  on  the  sensation  he  had  made  in  our 
fashionable  circles,  and  on  the  devotion  that  was  every 
where  paid  to  him,  my  mind  was  painfully  struck  by 
the  contrast  between  these  attentions,  and  the  neglect 
and  contumely  with  which  Alfred  Thornton  as  a  phy- 
sician, without  fortune  or  practice,  would  be  treated  in 
that  society  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  tri- 
umphs to  my  ambition ;  and  I  already  began  to  regard 
the  encouragement  I  had  given  him  as  a  romantic  folly. 
While  I  was  making  my  toilet,  my  mother  stood  by  me, 
and  her  frequent  directions  and  consultations  with  my 
French  dressing  maid  showed  her  anxiety  to  have  my 
personal  charms  displayed  to  the  best  advantage.  I  wil- 
lingly seconded  their  efforts,  and  determined  that  my 
mother's  vanity,  and  my  own  should  be  gratified,  by 
doing  all  that  I  could  to  make  myself  agreeable  in  the 
eyes  of  our  wealthy  visitor.  But  when  at  the  expected 
hour  Mr.  Horton  presented  himself  in  our  drawing  room, 
where  we  were  assembled  to  receive  him,  I  could  scarcely 
command  my  gravity,  when  I  recollected  that  this  was 
the  one  whom  my  parents  wished  me  to  gain  as  a  lover. 
His  figure  was  ungainly,  and  he  looked  older  than  my 
father.  But  I  quickly  recovered  my  self  possession,  and 
my  mother  was  quite  elated  with  the  favorable  impression 
I  seemed  to  have  made.  As  soon  as  he  left  us,  my  father 
came  to  me,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his,  said,  '  my  daugh- 
ter, 1  have  never  interfered  with  your  decision  respecting 
the  numerous  suitors  who  have  aspired  to  your  favor,  for 
I  was  willing  to  leave  this  to  your  own  judgment,  and 
good  sense,  knowing  that  you  were  superior  to  all  those 
.romantic  follies  and  delusions,  which  under  the  name  of 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  139 

constancy,  love  and  disinterested  affection,  lead  some 
silly  girls  to  sacrifice  their  best  interests  by  uniting  them- 
selves to  men  destitute  of  wealth.  Hitherto  I  have  ex- 
pressed no  wish  on  the  subject,  but  now,  my  Elizabeth, 
that  you  have  so  favorable  an  opportunity  for  gratifying 
your  parents  by  accepting  a  lover  so  desirable  as  Mr. 
Horton,  I  trust  that  you  will  continue  to  make  yourself 
as  attractive  to  him  as  you  have  evidently  done  on  your 
first  acquaintance.' 

"  The  idea  of  Mr.  Horton  as  a  lover,  seemed  to  me  so 
ridiculous,  that  in  despite  of  my  father's  gravity  while 
addressing  me,  I  laughed  at  it  as  an  absurdity.  This 
excited  the  displeasure  of  both  my  parents,  and  their 
remonstrance  was  so  far  successful  as  to  extort  a  promise 
that  I  would  give  Mr.  Horton  no  cause  for  offence,  nor 
say  any  thing  that  might  prematurely  lead  him  to  discon- 
tinue his  visits.  They  entreated  me  to  pay  him  every 
attention,  and  said  it  was  impolitic  as  well  as  presumptu- 
ous for  any  body  to  express  her  feelings  whether  favor- 
able, or  unfavorable,  to  the  gentleman  who  is  addressing 
her,  until  his  explicit  declaration  by  the  offer  of  his  hand 
gives  her  the  only  justifiable  opportunity  for  accepting  or 
rejecting  him.  This  doctrine  suited  so  well  with  my 
natural  coquetry,  that  although  I  thought  so  old  a  man  as 
Mr.  Horton  scarcely  worth  the  trouble  of  striving  to 
make  a  conquest  of  his  heart,  yet  when  I  saw  the  en- 
deavors made  by  mothers  and  daughters  to  entrap  him,  I 
determined  to  bring  him  to  my  feet,  even  if  I  did  not 
choose  to  accept  him.  But  the  representations  of  my 
parents,  in  speaking  of  the  style  in  which  I  could  live  as 
his  wife ;  and  my  own  ambition  for  display  which  again 
had  resumed  its  powerful  influence  over  me,  made  me  be- 
gin to  think  the  match  a  desirable  one.  So  that  after  the 
lapse  of  one  short  month  after  I  parted  with  Alfred 
Thornton,  I  was  betrothed  to  the  wealthy  Mr.  Horton. 


140  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

"  I  became  his  wife,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding 
that  I  had  won  the  prize  so  eagerly  sought  after  by  so 
many  others  of  my  acquaintance.  Shortly  after  my 
marriage  I  received  a  letter  from  Alfred,  written  in  all 
the  warmth  of  devoted  affection,  and  in  the  calm  trusting 
faith  of  his  confiding  nature.  Judging  my  heart  by  his 
own,  not  a  doubt  of  my  constancy  appeared  to  cast  a 
shadow  over  his  generous  mind.  I  was  struck  to  the 
heart,  by  the  baseness  of  my  conduct  towards  him,  but 
had  not  the  courage  to  answer  it,  and  tell  him  I  was 
another's ;  for  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  destroying  the 
buoyant  hope  which  cheered  him  in  his  endeavors  to 
place  himself  in  a  situation  which  would  allow  him  to 
claim  me  as  his  own. 

"  I  tried  to  shake  off  ihe  gloom  produced  by  his  letter, 
by  entering  into  all  the  gayeties  of  society.  I  knew  that 
Mr.  Horton's  health  was  enfeebled,  but  after  my  mar- 
riage, I  found  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  painful  malady, 
which  often  prevented  him  from  moving  from  one  room 
to  another  without  the  assistance  of  a  servant, — and  ren- 
dered him  at  times  as  helpless  as  an  infant.  He  became 
an  object  of  detestation  to  me,  which  in  my  pride  I  con- 
cealed from  others ;  but  took  little  pains  to  hide  from 
himself.  To  prevent  my  young  friends  from  discovering 
my  unhappiness,  I  became  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  in  the 
circles  of  fashion,  and  no  one  suspected  that  the  brilliant 
Mrs.  Horton  was,  at  home,  one  of  the  most  miserable  of 
women. 

"  Two  or  three  other  letters  from  Alfred  reached  me,  in 
which  he  seemed  saddened  by  not  having  heard  from 
me,  but  attributed  it  to  the  uncertainty  of  the  mail,  which 
he  thought  had  prevented  the  reception  of  my  answers. 
In  less  than  two  years  after  I  became  the  discontented 
wife  of  Mr.  Horton,  a  letter  came  from  Alfred,  filled  with 
joyous  anticipations  of  seeing  me  in  a  few  weeks, — and 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  141 

expressing  the  confident  hope  that  our  separation  would 
soon  be  ended ;  as  the  only  obstacle  to  our  union  was 
unexpectedly  removed,  by  a  sudden  accession  to  that  pe- 
cuniary independence,  he  had  so  anxiously  labored  for, 
that  he  might  present  himself  to  my  parents  as  a  claimant 
for  the  hand  of  her  whose  heart  had  so  long  been  his 
own.  He  said  that  he  had  just  received  information 
from  his  father  that  an  eccentric  bachelor  uncle,  whom 
they  thought  had  been  dead  for  many  years,  from  not 
having  heard  from  him,  had  accumulated  a  large  fortune 
in  Calcutta,  and  had  lately  died,  leaving  by  his  will  the 
whole  amount  of  his  wealth  to  be  divided  between  his 
father  and  himself.  '  As  soon  as  I  laid  down  the  letter,' 
said  Alfred,  '  that  contained  intelligence  so  welcome  to 
us  both,  I  hastened  to  communicate  it  to  you,  that  we 
may  rejoice  together  in  the  happiness  that  awaits  us.' 
He  added,  that  as  soon  as  he  could  arrange  his  affairs  he 
would  come  on,  to  receive  the  sweet  assurance  that  I  was 
still  his  own  Elizabeth;  and  to  claim  the  reward  for 
which  he  had  toiled  during  a  long  and  weary  absence 
from  all  that  was  dear  to  him, — his  home,  his  beloved 
parents,  and  her  who  was  the  first  and  only  object  of  his 
awakened  affections. 

"  In  the  madness  of  my  disappointment  and  misery,  I 
could  have  wildly  reproached  my  parents  for  the  wretch- 
edness they  had  brought  upon  me,  and  could  have  bitterly 
upbraided  the  man  whom  I  had  falsely  promised  at  the 
altar  to  'love,  honor  and  obey.'  For  days  and  weeks  I 
endured  an  agony  which  I  cannot,  cannot  describe  ;  sthd 
feigning  severe  indisposition,  I  secluded  myself  in  the 
solitude  of  my  own  room. 

"  He  came !  to  find  the  woman  he  so  fondly  loved,  the 
wife  of  another  man ;  and  that  man  the  old  and  imbecile 
Mr.  Horton.  I  had  no  interview  with  him,  for  neither  of 
us  could  have  borne  it;  but  I  saw  him  when  he  knew1  it 


142  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

not.  The  pale  and  interesting  countenance,  such  as  he 
wore  when  I  first  met  him,  was  now  in  all  the  perfection 
of  health  and  manly  beauty ;  and  his  finely  formed 
frame  once  so  attenuated  by  confinement  and  study,  was 
now  moulded  into  the  full  and  graceful  proportions  of 
vigorous  manhood.  Independent  of  his  mind,  his 
heart  and  his  character  such  as  I  knew  they  were,  his 
personal  attractions  were  those  which  win  the  eye  and 
interest  the  feelings  of  woman.  When  I  looked  on  his 
noble  form,  his  dignified  bearing,  his  firm  step,  and  the 
fine  attitude  of  his  classic  head,  as  he  was  passing  by  the 
house  from  which  I  was  gazing  on  him  unseen,  and  then 
thought  upon  the  one  whom  I  called  my  husband,  I 
loathed  the  title  my  own  consent  had  given  him,  and  sin- 
fully wished  that  I  was  free  from  the  yoke  to  which  I 
had  bent  my  own  neck.  But  conscience  reproached  me 
for  my  wicked  rebellion,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  sinned, 
grievously  sinned  against  my  God  and  against  him 
whose  name  I  bore.  A  better  state  of  feeling  succeeded, 
and  I  tried  to  make  amends  for  the  past  by  more  atten- 
tion to  my  husband,  whose  increasing  feebleness  required 
the  constant  assistance  of  a  nurse  more  tender  and  assid- 
uous than  a  menial.  My  previous  neglect  had  excited 
his  naturally  morose  and  irritable  temper,  and  he  treated 
me  as  I  deserved.  The  fortune  for  which  I  had  married 
him,  was  much  less  than  it  was  said  to  be,  and  my 
parents  had  the  mortification  of  finding  that  if  they  had 
not  ".endeavored  to  overcome  my  affection  for  Alfred 
Thornton,  by  stimulating  my  silly  ambition  and  vanity, 
so  easily  excited  by  a  prospect  of  a  magnificent  establish- 
ment, and  the  splendors  of  wealth,  their  daughter  might 
have  been  the  happy  wife  of  the  man  she  loved  and  have 
lived  in  a  style  far  surpassing  that  which  Mr.  Horton 
could  afford. 

"  The  short  time  that  Alfred  remained  in  our  city,  he 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  143 

met  with  the  most  devoted  attention  from  the  highest 
circles,  and  his  society  was  universally  courted,  by  match- 
making mothers,  and  their  marriageable  daughters, — but 
he  mingled  as  little  in  company  as  he  could  avoid  with- 
out giving  offence.  His  melancholy,  and  abstraction 
were  often  commented  on,  but  no  one  except  my  parents 
knew  the  cause.  He  returned  to  the  South,  contrary  to 
his  original  intention  on  leaving  there,  much  to  the  sor- 
row and  disappointment  of  his  parents  and  friends.  And 
in  a  few  months  afterwards,  I  saw  an  account  of  his 
death.  In  the  obituary  notice,  it  stated  that  the  state  of 
health  in  which  he  returned  to  re-assume  the  laborious 
duties  of  his  profession,  made  him  soon  fall  a' victim  to 
the  prevailing  epidemic  from  whose  fatal  effects  he  was 
so  skillful  in  saving  others.  Strangers  in  that  distant 
clime,  had  learned  to  value  him  as  he  deserved,  and  to 
feel  that  his  loss  was  painful  and  irreparable,  and  how 
deeply  did  my  heart  respond  to  the  glowing  tribute  to  his 
many  and  great  excellencies,  and  how  wildly  did  I  wish 
that  he  had  never  met,  or  loved  one  so  unworthy  of  his 
affections  as  I  was.  It  was  I  that  administered  the  fatal 
draught  of  sorrow,  that  made  him  an  easy  prey  to  the 
first  stroke  of  illness, — and  had  it  not  been  for  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  wretched,  wretched  Elizabeth  Har- 
rington, he  would  probably  have  been  still  living  in  the 
vigor  of  ripened  manhood,  the  pride  of  his  parents,  and 
friends,  and  the  cherished  object  of  devoted  affection  to 
some  lovely,  refined,  intellectual  woman,  far  more  capa- 
ble than  I  could  have  been,  to  promote  his  happiness,  and 
to  brighten  his  home  by  a  companionship  of  both  mind 
and  heart. 

"  My  grief  and  remorse  for  his  early  death,  were  long 
and  severe,  but  I  was  roused  from  this  morbid  indulgence 
by  the  dangerous  illness  of  Mr.  Horton.  I  attended  his 
sick  bed  as  faithfully  as  I  could  have  done,  had  he  been 


144  ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON. 

the  choice  of  my  affections,  instead  of  my  ambition,  for 
when  I  saw  that  I  was  about  to  lose  him,  compunction 
.for  my  frequent  indifference  to  his  comfort,  with  which 
he  justly  used  to  upbraid  me,  kept  me  a  constant  and  de- 
voted attendant  upon  him  in  the  last,  lingering  attack  of 
that  distressing  disease  under  which  he'had  so  long  been 
a  sufferer.  He  never  knew  any  thing  of  my  previous  at- 
tachment to  Alfred  Thornton,  and  was  wholly  uncon- 
scious how  deeply  I  had  wronged  him  in  giving  him  my 
hand  while  my  heart  belonged  to  another,  nor  did  he  ever 
express  the  slightest  suspicion  that  I  had  only  wedded 
him  for  his  possessions.  He  ascribed  my  inattention  and 
neglect  to  my  natural  levity,  youth,  and  fondness  for  socie- 
ty, and  although  he  often  blamed  me,  yet  in  his  last  hours 
he  entreated  my  forgiveness  for  the  past.  But  oh,  how 
much  more  need  had  I  to  ask  his  pardon,  for  all  that  my 
selfishness  had  suffered  him  to  endure, — his  hours  of 
loneliness,  with  no  one  to  sympathize  with  his  affliction, 
or  to  minister  to  the  many  wants  of  his  invalid  condition, 
but  a  servant, — who  could  but  illy  supply  all  that  his 
wife  ought  to  have  been  to  him.  I  could  not  bear  it; 
when  he  asked  me  to  forgive  him,  I  told  him  that  it  was 
I  who  needed  his  forgiveness, — and  it  was  freely  and  af- 
fectionately given.  In  this  interchange  of  feeling,  I 
learned  when  it  was  too  late,  to  appreciate  those  excel- 
lencies of  my  husband,  to  which  I  had  voluntarily  con- 
tinued a  stranger,  and  if  he  had  been  once  more  restored 
to  comparative  health,  I  might  have  learned  how  to  love 
and  honor  him. 

"  After  the  death  of  my  husband,  it  was  my  intention  to 
purchase  a  country  residence,  near  this  pleasant  abode  of 
my  cousins,  and  devote  my  time  and  attention  to  my  two 
children,  whose  extreme  delicacy  of  constitution  rendered 
this  change  desirable.  But  the  failure  of  my  husband's 
nephew,  who  had  purchased  his  West  India  plantation, 

m 


ELIZABETH    HARRINGTON.  145 

and  to  whom  a  large  amount  of  money  had  been  loaned 
about  a  year  previous,  deprived  me  of  the  small  compe- 
tence which  was  to  have  been  appropriated  to  my  sup- 
port, and  to  the  education  of  my  daughters.  I  was  left 
penniless,  and  rny  poor  father  who  had  offered  me  a 
home  with  him,  when  he  found  my  means  were  inade- 
quate to  purchase  one  of  my  own,  was  taken  from  us, 
by  a  sudden  indisposition,  and  my  mother  and  I  both  be- 
came widows,  in  the  lapse  of  two  months.  As  my  pa- 
rents had  always  lived  up  to  the  extent  of  their  income, 
no  portion  of  my  father's  salary  had  ever  been  invested 
in  stock,  or  property,  so  that  we  were  companions  in 
poverty,  as  well  as  widowhood.  We  proposed  to  open  a 
boarding-house  as  the  most  eligible  means  of  support, 
and  the  only  one  for  which  we  were  fitted, — our  house  is 
considered  a  fashionable  one,  and  it  is  generally  filled. 
It  is  true,  we  have  succeeded  in  gaining  a  livelihood,  and 
are  kept  from  the  pressure  of  temporal  want,  yet  our  lives 
are  spent  in  harassing  anxiety,  and  in  the  wasting  fa- 
tigue of  wearisome  labor.  We  occasionally  take  alter- 
nate seasons  of  rest  and  quiet  with  our  dear  cousins,  in 
this  happy,  peaceful  home,  which  strengthens  us  for  con- 
tinued endurance.  This  life  is  all  I  have  to  look  for- 
ward to  on  earth,  until  I  am  laid  in  the  repose  of  the 
grave.  And  this,  my  dear  Ellen,  is  the  sad  history  of  a 
thoughtless  coquette, — of  one  who  bartered  the  gushing 
affections  of  a  young  heart,  for  the  miserable  ambition  of 
living  in  ostentatious  splendor  with  one  whom  she  did 
not  love,  but  deceived  even  at  the  very  altar  with  false 
vows  to  love,  honor  and  obey. 
13 


146 


CHAPTER  X. 

AMELIA   DORRINGTON,   OR   THE   LOST   ONE. 

I  have  seen,  and  I  know,  that  an  empty  mind  is  not  a  strong  citadel, 
and  in  the  melancholy  chronicle  of  female  degradation,  the  instances  are 
rare  of  victims  distinguished  for  mental  cultivation.— N  P.  WILLIS. 

The  purity  of  the  female  mind  cannot  be  too  sedulously  guarded  from 
injury  ;  once  blighted,  it  can  never  be  restored  !— ANON. 

SEVERAL  years  ago,  while  Edward  and  Charles  were 
taking  a  tour  through  the  western  States,  I  spent  the 
period  of  their  absence  with  the  family  of  Judge  Colling- 
wood,  an  old  friend  of  my  father.  One  day  while  seated 
with  his  wife  and  daughters,  in  the  pleasant  piazza,  en- 
joying the  beauty  of  the  evening,  a  woman  approached 
us,  asking  alms.  I  immediately  noticed  the  singular 
beauty  and  richness  of  her  hair,  whose  silkiness  shone 
through  its  evident  neglect  in  arrangement.  As  she 
raised  her  head,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  face  where  there 
were  remains  of  much  beauty,  and  I  could  not  help  won- 
dering what  had  brought  her  to  such  a  state  of  wretched 
destitution. 

The  small  sum  she  asked  for,  was  gently  refused  by 
Mrs.  Collingwood,  but  she  told  her  to  go  round  to  the 
Housekeeper's  room,  who  would  give  her  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  something  to  eat,  if  she  wished  it.  As  soon  as  the 
woman  had  gone,  Mrs.  Collingwood  said  with  a  sigh, 
"  it  makes  me  sad  to  witness  the  degradation  to  which 
woman  can  be  brought  when  she  makes  shipwreck  of 
virtue,  and  principle.  That  wretched  creature  I  knew  in 
her  youth,  as  a  girl  of  wealth,  beauty,  and  accomplish- 
ments. Amelia  Dorrington,  was  the  daughter  of  one  of 
my  neighbors." 

"  Amelia  Dorrington  did  you  say  !"  I  hastily  interrupt- 
ed her,  "  was  she  once  a  pupil  of  Mrs.  Norville  ?" 


AMELIA    DORRINGTON,    OR    THE    LOST    ONE.  147 

"  She  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Collingwood. 

"  Can  it  be  possible  !"  I  exclaimed,  "  that  in  this  poor 
beggar,  I  saw  the  once  beautiful  Amelia  Dorrington, — 
what  could  have  brought  her  so  low  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  sadly,  "  this  poor  degraded  crea- 
ture was  born  to  a  station,  brightened  by  all  that  wealth 
and  unlimited  parental  indulgence  could  bestow.  Soon 
after  her  return  from  school,  before  she  was  of  sufficient 
age  to  bear  unharmed  the  flattery  and  admiration  she  re- 
ceived in  society,  she  was  launched  into  all  its  gayeties  and 
frivolities.  She  had  never  known  any  thing  like  restraint 
while  with  her  parents,  as  their  excessive  and  injudicious 
fondness  induced  them  to  permit  her  to  do  as  she  pleased, 
and  to  associate  with  any  one  she  fancied.  Prudent 
friends  cautioned  them  respecting  the  latitude  they  gave 
to  one  so  young  and  thoughtless,  but  they  were  offended 
by  these  admonitions,  for  in  their  eyes  Amelia  was  fault- 
less. She  ruled  her  doting  father  and  mother  with  des- 
potic sway,  and  gratified  by  the  admiration  she  excited, 
they  took  no  heed  to  her  conduct  or  her  principles. 
Amelia's  large  fortune,  as  the  only  heiress  to  her  father's 
wealth,  and  her  animated  beauty,  drew  around  her  a 
crowd  of  suitors.  There  was  a  great  degree  of  levity  in 
her  manners,  bordering  on  undue  familiarity  with  the 
opposite  sex,  but  she  seemed  to  think  that  her  position  in 
society  gave  her  a  license  to  set  female  propriety  at  defi- 
ance. '  I  will  do  as  I  please,  and  people  may  think  what 
they  please,'  was  a  favorite  retort  of  this  self-willed  girl, 
when  any  of  her  friends  remonstrated  with  her  on  her 
conduct.  She  appeared  to  take  delight  in  violating  all 
rules  of  prudence,  conscious  that  she  could  do  with  impu- 
nity, as  a  leader  of  fashionable  society,  that  which  would 
have  injured  her  reputation,  had  she  rilled  an  humbler 
station.  But  although  such  are  the  maxims  and  practices 
of  many  girls  in  fashionable  life,  yet  the  ground  is  a 


148  AMELIA   DORRINGTON,   OR   THE    LOST   ONE. 

dangerous  one,  and  if  they  are  saved  from  the  consequen- 
ces of  their  daring,  they  are  more  indebted  to  the  safe- 
guards of  their  position  than  to  their  principles,  for  in  no 
situation  would  a  woman  of  truly  virtuous  character 
recklessly  venture  beyond  the  prescribed  boundaries  of 
feminine  decorum.  Many  remarks  were  made  upon  the 
conduct  of  the  thoughtless  Amelia.  Prudent  mothers 
would  say,  '  if  my  daughter  was  like  Amelia  Dorrington, 
I  should  be  unwilling  to  trust  her  in  society  without  a 
chaperone,'  while  fashionable  ones  would  exclaim, '  these 
are  nothing  but  girlish  follies.  Amelia  is  so  full  of  life 
and  spirits  that  we  must  not  expect  her  to  be  as  staid  as 
girls  of  a  less  cheerful  disposition.  She  will  be  sober 
and  demure  enough  by  and  by,  when  she  becomes  a 
wife.'  What  might  have  been  her  fate,  if  she  had  been 
married  to  a  man  of  better  morals  and  habits  than  Charles 
Sefton,  we  now  have  no  opportunity  of  judging,  but  it 
seldom  happens  that  one  like  Amelia  ever  makes  a  wise 
choice  in  a  husband.  Charles,  like  herself,  was  a  spoiled 
child  of  fortune.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  idleness, 
and  attendant  vices  followed  in  its  train.  He  was  proba- 
bly the  most  dissipated  among  her  numerous  admirers, 
but  this  was  not  thought  an  objection,  as  he  possessed  a 
handsome  person  and  much  wealth.  They  began  their 
career  as  the  gayest  and  most  fashionable  couple  in  our 
village,  but  our  society  was  soon  regarded  as  too  limited 
for  the  sphere  of  their  ambition.  Their  summers  were 
spent  at  the  different  watering-places,  and  their  winters 
at  a  fashionable  hotel  in  New  York  or  Washington. 
Charles  soon  dissipated  his  own  fortune  by  gambling,  and 
other  vices,  and  when  the  death  of  Mr.  Dorrington  gave 
him  a  control  over  that  of  his  wife,  it  was  not  many  years 
before  this  too  was  squandered  with  equal  recklessness. 
The  society  into  which  Amelia  was  thrown,  was  pecu- 
liarly unfavorable  to  one  so  thoughtless  and  volatile,  and 


AMELIA    DORRINGTON,    OR    THE    LOST    ONE.  149 

in  order  to  revenge  the  neglect  of  her  husband,  she  re- 
ceived the  attentions  and  admirations  of  other  men,  with 
evident  pleasure  and  gratified  vanity.  This  was  her  first, 
fatal  step,  and  so  rapid  was  her  downfall,  that  even  be- 
fore the  death  of  her  husband,  she  was  cast  off  by  him 
and  his  relatives,  as  unworthy  even  to  be  the  wife  of  one 
as  degraded  as  he  was.  Her  children  were  taken  from 
her,  and  she  was  denied  all  access  to  their  presence. 
After  this  she  sank  to  the  lowest  state  of  vice  and  wretch- 
edness, and  her  course  is  too  revolting  to  repeat. 

"In  one  of  our  cities,  the  scene  of  her  former  display  in 
its  fashionable  circles,  she  has  been  the  inmate  of  its 
lowest  negro  hovels,  and  has  often  been  brought  before 
its  criminal  court,  for  disturbing  the  peace  in  midnight 
brawls.  She  has  been  twice  a  convict  in  the  State  prison 
for  theft,  and  her  last  term  of  punishment  has  just  expired. 
The  feelings  of  a  mother  still  haunt  her  heart,  low  and 
vile  as  she  has  become,  for  she  frequently  visits  this 
neighborhood  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
children.  They  are  happily  ignorant  that  they  have  a 
mother  living,  for  she  has  never  been  permitted  to  see 
'  them  since  they  were  taken  from  her.  A  few  days  ago, 
one  of  her  daughters  was  riding  with  a  party  of  young 
persons,  on  their  way  to  a  bridal  dinner  at  the  house  of 
one  of  our  neighbors.  On  the  side  of  the  road  lay  a 
woman,  in  a  state  of  brutal  intoxication.  Miss  Sefton 
exclaimed,  '  what  a  wretched,  degraded  creature  !'  The 
gentleman  to  whom  she  made  the  remark  knew  who  it 
was,  but,  poor  girl,  happy  was  it  for  her  that  she  was  un- 
conscious that  the  object  of  her  pity  and  contempt  was 
the  mother  to  Avhom  she  owed  her  being." 

This  sad  recital  of  Amelia  Dorrington's  history,  made 
me  feel  very  unhappy,  for  the  contrast  between  the*  beau- 
tiful child  at  the  Oakwood  school,  and  the  wretched  beg- 
gar I  had  just  seen,  was  too  painful  to  dwell  upon.  "Poor 


150  AMELIA   DORRINGTON,   OR   THE   LOST   ONE. 

creature,"  said  I,  "  has  no  effort  been  made  to  reclaim 
her?" 

"  Many,  many,  my  dear  Ellen,"  replied  Mrs.  Colling- 
wood,  "but  all  without  apparent  effect.  Her  vicious 
course  of  life  seems  to  have  closed  up  every  avenue  of 
hope.  She  is  lost  to  the  sense  of  shame,  and  every  feel- 
ing of  her  heart  has  become  deadened,  except  the  love  for 
her  children,  but  even  this  has  had  no  power  to  induce 
her  to  reform  her  conduct.  Her  intemperate  habits  create 
a  burning  thirst  for  the  maddening  draught,  and  this 
thirst  has  made  her  a  thief  and  a  beggar  ;  but  those  who 
know  her,  much  as  they  pity  her  destitute  condition, 
refuse  to  supply  her  with  the  means  of  debasing  herself 
still  deeper  by  continued  intoxication." 

About  a  year  after  I  saw  the  wretched  Amelia,  I  was 
visiting  an  almshouse  in  a  neighboring  State  with  a  pious 
and  benevolent  friend,  who  'labored  to  benefit  both  the 
bodily  and  spiritual  wants  of  its  inmates.  As  we  were 
passing  through  the  room  appropriated  to  the  sick,  I  heard 
heavy  groans  proceeding  from  one  of  the  beds,  where  a 
woman  lay  tossing  as  if  in  the  agonies  of  death.  As  we 
approached  her,  the  nurse  said  to  us,  "  that  poor  crea- 
ture was  brought  here  a  few  days  past  from  the  road, 
where  she  was  found  almost  frozen  to  death,  after  having 
lain  out,  it  was  supposed,  during  the  whole  night,  one  of 
the  coldest  we  have  had  this  season.  Her  hands  and  feet 
are  so  badly  frozen,  that  it  is  hourly  expected  that  a  mor- 
tification will  take  place,  her  case  is  considered  a  hopeless 
one.  Poor  wretch,  she  raves  continually  about  her  chil- 
dren, and  talks  of  having  once  been  wealthy  and  living 
in  ease  and  splendor." 

When  the  dying  woman  turned  her  face  towards  us,  I 
saw  to  my  horror  that  it  was  the  once  beautiful  Amelia 
Dorrington  !  It  was  a  consolation  that  she  was  unable 
to  recognize  me,  for  how  much  would  it  have  added  to 


AMELIA    DORRINGTON,    OR    THE    LOST    ONE.  151 

her  remorse  to  see  one  who  had  known  her  as  the  gay 
schoolmate  of  Oakwood.  Oh,  how  it  harrowed  my  heart 
to  hear  her  groans,  bitter  self-accusation,  and  blasphemous 
imprecations  !  Sometimes  she  would  rave  like  a  maniac, 
and  then  she  would  weep  like  a  suffering  child.  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  entreated  my  friend  to  hasten  from 
the  sight  of  the  mental  and  physical  agony,  which  we 
could  do  nothing  to  relieve. 

The  next  morning  we  heard  of  her  death.  Such  was 
the  miserable  end  of  the  lost  Amelia  Dorrington.  Born 
to  affluence,  and  blest  with  all  that  prosperity  and  indul- 
gence could  bestow,  she  died  in  an  almshouse — the 
wretched  victim  of  depravity  and  intemperance  ! 

Oh  that  parents  would  take  warning  by  examples  such 
as  this,  to  "  train  up  their  children  in  the  way  they  should 
go."  To  how  many  might  be  addressed  the  solemn  ad- 
monition given  to  Eli,  "  your  children  made  themselves 
vile,  and  ye  restrained  them  not."  To  such,  a  history 
like  this  should  cause  their  ears  to  tingle,  and  their  hearts 
to  feel  bitter  forebodings,  if  they  have  abused  that  most 
fearful  of  all  responsibilities,  parental  power — parental 
influence  !  Oh  that  those  indulgent  mothers  who  permit 
trifling  indiscretions  to  pass  by  unreproved,  regarding 
them  as  childish  follies,  would  but  reflect  that  these  are 
often  the  first  steps  to  greater  evils,  that  they  may  check 
them,  ere  it  is  too  late  !  How  assiduously  should  every 
parent  labor,  to  implant  into  the  minds  of  their  children 
the  strictest  principles  of  virtue  and  purity,  and  to  instill 
into  their  daughters  the  most  refined  ideas  of  feminine 
propriety  in  all  their  words  and  actions.  Here  nothing 
is  trifling,  for  thoughtless  levity  may  be  followed  by  a 
total  loss  of  virtuous  principle.  No  one  can  say,  "  thus 
far  mayst  thou  go  and  no  farther,"  when  the  first  barrier 
is  permitted  to  be  broken  down.  There  is  many  a  girl, 
in  the  unthinking  vanity  and  gayety  of  her  heart,  who 


152       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

supposes  she  will  be  more  popular  in  society  by  her  free- 
dom of  manners ;  but  she  is  sadly,  sadly  mistaken  !  The 
coldest  reserve  is  more  desirable  in  the  woman  whom  a 
man  wishes  to  make  his  wife,  than  the  least  approach  to 
undue  familiarity.  It  is  true,  that  levity  of  conduct  may 
cause  a  female  to  be  sought  after  as  an  amusing  compan- 
ion at  an  evening  party,  but  no  man,  even  the  most  dissi- 
pated and  reckless,  would  select  such  an  one  as  the  wife 
of  his  bosom,  and  the  future  mother  of  his  children. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR    THE    IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

Our  thoughts  are  never  more  frivolously  employed  than  when  we  per- 
mit them  to  dwell  upon  trifling  feelings  of  indisposition.  To  these, 
most  women  are  subject  more  or  less,  but  they  suffer  least  from  them, 
who  endeavor,  by  the  aid  of  useful  and  cheerful  occupation,  to  give  them 
no  attention.  The  poet  tells  a  truth  when  he  says, 

"  To  dally  long  on  subjects  mean  and  low, 

Shows  a  weak  mind  or  quickly  makes  it  so." — MRS.  PARKS. 

SEVERAL  years  ago,  I  went  to  Philadelphia  with  an 
interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of  one  of  my  neighbors, 
who  had  been  advised  to  consult  an  eminent  physician  of 
that  place,  respecting  a  chronic  affection  of  the  liver. 
When  I  found  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  remain 
for  some  time  under  his  care,  we  took  lodgings  in  a  com- 
fortable boarding  house  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  city. 
Soon  after  we  were  fixed  in  our  transient  home,  I  acci- 
dentally discovered  in  a  conversation  with  an  old  lady 
who  occupied  the  same  floor,  that  my  old  schoolmate, 
Matilda  Harwood,  had  settled  in  Philadelphia  after  her 
marriage.  I  was  anxious  to  see  her,  and  lost  no  time  in 
renewing  our  acquaintance,  thinking  she  would  prove  an 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       153 

agreeable  accession  to  our  society,  situated  as  we  were 
among  strangers. 

Upon  calling  at  her  dwelling,  I  was  told  by  the  servant 
that  Mrs.  Granville  was  very  much  indisposed.  I  sent 
np  my  card,  and  was  invited  to  visit  her  in  her  room.  I 
found  her  seated  in  a  cushioned  rocking  chair,  moving 
slowly  backward  and  forward,  as  if  she  were  lulling  her- 
self to  sleep,  and  wrapped  up  in  a  large  shawl,  though  it 
was  in  the  early  part  of  September.  "  How  are  you,  my 
dear  Ellen,"  she  languidly  said,  still  keeping  her  seat  as 
I  advanced  to  take  her  proffered  hand.  "  You  look  as 
well  as  you  did  when  a  blooming  school  girl,  but  you 
find  me  sadly  altered  by  sickness  since  you  last  saw  me." 
"  Your  face  does  not  indicate  severe  indisposition,"  I  re- 
plied, "I  hope  your  complaint  is  but  a  temporary  one." 

"  It  is  the  flush  of  fever,  that  gives  me  the  appearance 
of  health,"  she  added,  "  as  if  half  offended  by  my  sup- 
posed imputation,  that  she  was  not  as  ill  as  she  imagined 
herself  to  be.  "  Feel  my  pulse,"  said  she,  taking  her 
fingers  from  her  wrist,  and  appealing  to  me,  to  confirm 
her  own  testimony.  I  declined  the  examination,  telling 
her  that  I  had  no  skill  in  judging  of  such  matters.  "  I 
have  had  so  much  sickness,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  can 
generally  tell  the  extent  of  my  own  indisposition  even 
better  than  any  physician.  I  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  be  well  for  a  day,  for  many  years  past.  I  have  con- 
sulted the  best  medical  practitioners  without  experiencing 
any  benefit,  and  I  change  my  attending  physician  very 
frequently,  and  yet  every  one  has  failed  in  discovering 
the  seat  of  my  disease.  I  have  heard  that  the  Homoeopa- 
thists  have  been  very  successful  in  their  practice.  There 
is  a  celebrated  one  in  New  York,  and  I  have  requested 
Mr.  Granville  to  take  me  there,  to  consult  him  on  my 
case ;  for  I  had  a  very  severe  attack  last  week,  although 
I  am  now  a  little  better, — but  if  some  women  were  as 


154       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

much  indisposed  as  I  feel  even  now,  they  would  be  in 
bed." 

"  Your  health  was  very  good  in  your  school  days,"  I 
replied,  "  I  do  not  recollect  your  having  lost  a  single  day 
by  sickness.  How  many  pleasant  hours  have  we  spent 
together  at  Oakvvood,  sporting  over  its  green  meadows 
and  fields.  And  our  dear  Mrs.  Norville ;  how  forcibly 
does  the  sight  of  you  bring  to  mind  the  happiness  we  all 
enjoyed  under  her  care.  I  remained  with  her  until  she 
died,  and  have  her  two  sons  living  with  me." 

"  Yes,  it  is  pleasant  to  recall  those  days  when  I  was 
free  from  pain  and  sickness,"  said  Matilda,  whose 
thoughts  could  not  be  drawn  by  any  subject  from  her  own 
ailments.  "  My  health  was  first  undermined  about  a 
year  before  my  marriage,  and  afterwards  entirely  de- 
stroyed by  the  fatigue  I  underwent  in  nursing  my  first 
child.  Since  then  I  have  always  employed  a  wet-nurse, 
indeed  it  is  too  much  exertion  for  a  mother  as  delicate  as 
I  am  to  go  through  this  life-wearing  duty." 

"  How  many  children  have  you  ?"  I  enquired. 

"  I  have  had  twelve,"  she  answered,  "  and  seven  still 
survive.  Oh,  you  know  not,  my  dear  Ellen,  how  much 
you  have  escaped  by  remaining  unmarried.  Children 
are  a  source  of  great  trouble  and  anxiety,  and  I  am 
wholly  unable  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  attending  to  them. 
The  deaths  of  my  five  children  were  ascribed  by  my 
husband  to  the  carelessness  and  neglect  of  their  nurses ; 
but  what  could  I  do  ?  feeble  as  my  own  health  was,  it 
could  not  be  expected  that  I  could  always  keep  them  un- 
der my  own  eye ;  the  worry  and  labor  of  a  continual 
personal  supervision  on  my  part,  would  have  cost  me  my 
own  life.  Mr.  Granville  is  a  strong,  healthy  man,  and 
does  not  know  how  to  feel  for  one  whose  constitution  and 
nervous  system  are  as  delicate  as  mine." 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  servant  came  into  the  room 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       155 

bearing  a  waiter  of  refreshments.  "  This,"  said  she,  "  is 
my  hour  for  taking  some  nourishment,  and  I  hope  you 
will  excuse  me,  as  the  only  way  I  can  bear  food  without 
suffering  from  it,  is  to  take  it  at  regular  intervals,  and  I 
have  to  eat  sparingly  and  often." 

"  Bring  me  the  scales,"  she  said  to  the  servant. 
When  the  girl  brought  them,  I  was  curious  to  know  the 
use  she  intended  to  make  of  them.  The  articles  of  diet 
were  placed  in  one,  and  a  couple  of  weights  in  the  other, 
and  Matilda  was  as  careful  in  adjusting  the  balance  as  if 
she  were  weighing  out  calomel.  "  My  physician,"  she 
said,  addressing  herself  to  me,  "  only  allows  me  to  take 
so  many  ounces  at  once,  and  the  slightest  deviation  from 
the  prescribed  quantity  gives  me  the  most  distressing 
symptoms.  And  now,  my  dear  Ellen,  I  must  again  beg 
you  to  excuse  me  for  eating  before  you  ;  as  my  digestive 
powers  are  so  weak,  that  I  cannot  bear  with  impunity  the 
least  delay  in  taking  my  food  at  the  allotted  periods." 

She  ate  with  apparent  appetite,  what  seemed  to  me 
fully  sufficient  for  one  in  perfect  health  to  take  at  a 
luncheon.  "  My  appetite  is  so  miserable,"  she  said, 
"  that  every  thing  I  eat  is  forced ;  but  I  know  I  would 
soon  sink  unless  I  endeavored  to  take  enough  to  keep  up 
the  little  strength  that  is  left  me.  This  bread  is  made  of 
unbolted  flour,  and  I  have  to  sprinkle  it  with  cayenne 
pepper  to  make  it  agree  with  me.  But  with  all  this  pre- 
caution, you  cannot  imagine,  my  dear  friend,  what  a 
constant  heart-burn  I  endure,  after  I  have  eaten  it.  A 
few  minutes  after  my  simple  meal  is  finished,  I  feel  the 
most  distressing  symptoms  through  my  whole  system, 
even  to  the  ends  of  my  fingers  and  toes.  Oh,  no  one 
knows  what  I  suffer." 

I  made  no  reply,  but  I  thought  it  was  quite  probable 
that  she  should  feel  what  she  called  a  heart-burn,  if  she 
used  a  quantity  of  cayenne  pepper  every  day,  equal  to 


156      MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

that  which  I  saw  her  add  to  the  bread  she  was  then  eat- 
ing. Soon  after  I  entered  her  room,  I  noticed  a  cradle  of 
extraordinary  size,  standing  in  one  corner;  and  as  my 
curiosity  was  naturally  excited  by  its  unusual  length,  I 
at  las?  ventured  to  ask  her  if  her  infant  was  sleeping 
there.  "  Oh  no,"  she  replied,  "  I  always  keep  my  baby 
in  the  nursery,  as  I  cannot  bear  the  noise  of  its  crying. 
When  it  is  in  a  good  humor,  I  have  it  brought  to  me 
once  a  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  and  let  it  remain 
here  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  if  it  continues  quiet."  I 
was  afraid  that  my  curiosity  respecting  the  mammoth 
cradle  would  not  be  gratified,  but  she  continued,  "  that 
cradle  was  made  for  me  when  I  was  suffering  under  a 
distressing  nervous  complaint;  for  I  hoped  that  its  lulling 
motion  would  make  me  sleep." 

I  could  scarcely  refrain  smiling,  when  she  told  me 
this,  and  she  was  commencing  to  give  me  a  full  history 
of  her  nervous  attack,  with  all  its  attendant  symptoms, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  a  young  lady  entered  with  an 
infant  in  her  arms.  "  Mother,"  said  she,  "  I  have 
brought  Mary  to  see  you,  does  she  not  look  sweetly 
to-day  ?" 

The  languid  mother  smiled  faintly  oh  her  beautiful 
babe,  who  was  stretching  out  its  little  arms  to  her, 
crowing  with  infantine  glee,  and  showing  two  pearly 
teeth  between  its  parted  lips.  She  introduced  the  young 
lady  to  me  as  her  step-daughter,  Sophia  Granville,  and 
then  addressing  herself  to  her  said,  "  I  cannot  take  Mary 
now  Sophia,  I  feel  too  much  wearied  and  exhausted  to 
bear, her  weight, — and  I  have  no  candy  to  give  her,  for 
Henry  had  the  last  this  morning." 

When  I  looked  at  the  delicate  girl  who  stood  before 
Matilda,  with  her  lovely  burthen,  whose  panting  breath 
showed  that  the  fatigue  of  supporting  it  was  too  much 
for  her  strength ;  I  could  riot  help  thinking  that  the  sel- 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       157 

fish,  indolent  mother  was  by  far  most  able  to  sustain  its 
weight.  The  disappointed  babe  expected  to  be  taken 
into  its  mother's  lap  to  receive  its  accustomed  portion  of 
confectionary,  which  this  weak  and  ill-judging  parent 
always  kept  by  her,  for  the  purpose  of  attracting  her  chil- 
dren when  she  took  a  fancy  to  have  them  with  her.  The 
sweet  little  infant  cried  aloud  when  its  mother  refused  to 
take  it ;  and  she  told  Sophia  to  carry  it  to  the  nurse,  as 
her  nerves  were  too  weak  to  bear  its  crying. 

As  soon  as  Sophia  had  left  the  room,  I  said  to  Matilda, 
"  how  extremely  delicate  your  step-daughter  looks,  her 
cough  is  distressing.  I  should  fear  from  her  breathing, 
that  her  lungs  are  affected."  "  Oh  no,"  she  hastily  re- 
plied, "  Sophia  is  in  much  better  health  than  I  am,  I 
assure  you  ;  I  could  not  endure  one  half  the  labor  that 
she  does.  You  have  no  idea  how  useful  she  is  to  me. 
She  has  taken  the  whole  charge  of  my  children,  and  the 
family  concerns  ever  since  she  left  school,  because  my 
own  state  of  health  rendered  me  unequal  to  so  great  a 
responsibility.  Her  father  sometimes  makes  much  ado 
about  her  cough,  and  wishes  to  consult  a  physician  ;  but 
I  tell  him  it  is  only  a  cold,  and  its  ejects  will  soon  pass 
away,  as  she  has  naturally  a  stronger  constitution  than  I 
have.  No  one  should  give  up  to  a  trifling  indisposition, 
if  I  did  so,  I  should  never  be  well  enough  to  leave  my 
room." 

After  a  gentle  hint  from  Matilda,  that  she  was  afraid 
she  had  increased  her  fever  by  talking  too  much,  and 
that  the  hour  for  her  morning  repose  had  arrived,  I  took 
my  leave,  scarcely  able  to  realize  that  this  poor  selfish 
creature  could  be  the  gay  and  witty  Matilda  Harwood  I 
had  known  in  my  school  days.  During  the  time  I  sat 
with  her,  I  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  from  herself,  by 
recalling  many  incidents  of  the  past  to  her  recollection, 
but  she  took  no  interest  in  any  thing  but  her  own  symp- 
14 


158       MATILDA  HAEWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

toms  and  feelings.  What  is  it,  I  asked  myself  that 
could  have  wrought  such  a  change  ?  What  can  it  be, 
that  could  thus  cause  a  wife,  a  mother,  and  the  mistress 
of  a  family  to  become  so  dead  to  the  affections  arid  duties 
of  married  life.  Although  I  was  in  some  degree  pre- 
pared to  find  her  altered,  by  having  heard  from  the  lady 
who  directed  me  to  Mr.  Granville's  residence,  that  Ma- 
tilda had  become  as  nervous  as  her  mother  was ;  yet  I 
had  no  idea  of  finding  my  gay  schoolmate  so  strangely 
metamorphosed.  I  felt  disappointed,  and  grieved  by  my 
visit,  and  on  my  return,  I  asked  her  old  acquaintance, 
Mrs.  Thomas,  how  long  Mrs.  Granville  had  been  in  this 
miserable  state  of  mind, — and  what  had  caused  such  a 
change. 

"  When  Matilda  returned  from  school,"  she  replied, 
"  I  never  saw  a  girl  more  gay  and  animated  than  she 
was.  Mrs.  Harwood  was  a  timid,  nervous  woman,  and 
was  continually  urging  her  thoughtless  daughter  to  take 
better  care  of  her  health  ;  but  Matilda  laughed  at  her 
mother's  counsels  and  fears,  arid  seemed  to  take  pleasure 
in  trying  how  much  exposure  she  could  bear.  It  was 
then  the  fashion  for  young  ladies  to  make  their  forms 
appear  as  slight  and  delicate  as  fairies  are  fabled  to  be, — 
and  to  do  this,  they  wore  as  little  clothing  as  they 
could,  without  violating  their  sense  of  feminine  propriety. 
Matilda  was  as  plurnp  as  a  partridge,  and  she  tried  to  re- 
duce her  figure  to  the  standard  of  fashionable  fragility 
and  slenderness,  by  tight  lacing  and  thin  apparel.  She 
was  very  fond  of  society,  and  accepted  every  invitation 
to  mingle  in  its  gayeties.  During  the  whole  winter  of 
her  first  coming  out  into  the  fashionable  world,  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  laying  off  her  flannel,  whenever  she  went 
to  a  ball  or  evening  party.  The  effects  of  this  impru- 
dence soon  became  apparent  by  repeated  colds,  and 
towards  the  last  of  February,  she  was  confined  to  a  sick 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       159 

bed.  Her  indisposition  was  long  and  severe,  and  her 
mother  nursed  and  attended  her  as  tenderly  and  devo- 
tedly as  if  she  had  been  an  infant.  The  interest  that  she 
excited  in  her  parent,  and  her  friends,  and  the  willing 
readiness  of  all  around  her,  to  minister  to  her  capricious 
whims  when  she  became  convalescent,  was  a  new  source 
of  satisfaction  to  Matilda  ;  and  recompensed  her  for  the 
loss  of  those  attentions  which  her  popular  manners  had 
always  secured  to  her,  in  the  circles  where  she  visited. 
She  made  the  most  of  every  little  ailment  for  the  sake  of 
exciting  sympathy,  and  became  as  pettish  and  exacting 
as  a  spoiled  child.  In  her  hours  of  gayety  and  unbroken 
health,  her  vivacity  and  wit  made  her  a  pleasant  com- 
panion, and  threw  a  veil  over  her  greatest  defect, — an 
intense  selfishness,  which  Mrs.  Harwood  had  uncon- 
sciously fostered  by  unlimited  indulgence,  and  by 
making  herself  a  complete  slave  to  her  daughter  from 
her  infancy  to  womanhood.  But  when  Matilda's  fine 
flow  of  spirits  forsook  her,  when  confined  to  her  sick 
room,  she  became  peevish  and  fretful ;  and  this  unfortu- 
nate trait  in  her  character  became  apparent  to  all  who 
saw  her.  She  never  thought  of  sparing  her  feeble  mo- 
ther in  any  thing;  and  her  foolisMy  indulgent  pa/ent 
gave  up  to  all  that  her  daughter  required  from  her. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  Matilda  suffered  much  during 
her  illness,  as  her  liver  and  stomach  were  at  first  very 
seriously  affected.  But  she  was  relieved  from  her  dan- 
gerous symptoms  by  medical  attendance,  aided  by  her 
mother's  good  nursing.  And  the  slight  ailments  that 
remained,  would  have  been  entirely  removed  by  exercise 
in  the  open  air,  and  a  little  energy  in  resisting  the  indo- 
lence they  produced.  But  she  became  a  confirmed  hypo- 
chondriac, and  permitted  her  thoughts  and  imagination 
to  dwell  continually  on  the  most  trifling  feelings  of  indis- 
position. She  constantly  fancied  herself  to  be  the  vie- 


160       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

tim  of  some  dangerous  and  fatal  disease,  which  would  be 
varied  in  its  title,  according-  to  the  variation  of  her 
symptoms.  Her  mother,  instead  of  checking  this  grow- 
ing evil,  indulged  her  by  giving  up  to  every  whim,  that 
by  turns  possessed  her.  I  had  seen  so  many  painful 
instances  of  women  who  were  made  a  burthen  to  them- 
selves, and  their  families,  by  this  delusion  of  fancying 
themselves  invalids,  that  I  saw  Matilda's  error,  and 
tried  to  convince  her  of  its  evils,  by  a  long  and  serious 
conversation  with  her;  begging  her,  as  she  valued  her- 
self, and  her  mother,  to  arouse  with  resolute  determina- 
tion from  this  indolent  indulgence,  and  engage  herself  in 
some  active  employment,  which  would  soon  restore  her 
to  her  former  health.  But  my  sincerity  and  plainness  of 
speech,  offended  both  mother  and  daughter  ;  and  this 
deterred  me  from  giving  them  any  farther  advice.  I 
was  with  them  one  day,  when  a  Physician  came,  who 
had  lately  been  called  on  to  attend  Matilda.  He  was  a 
man  of  sense,  and  candor,  and  so  far  removed  from  the 
quackery  and  polite  dissimulation  that  belong  to  some 
members  of  his  profession,  that  he  honestly  told  them 
the  truth,  however  unpalatable  it  might  be. 

V  Your  daughter?1  my  dear  madam,"  said  he,  "  has  no 
disease  that  requires  medical  attendance.  All  that  now 
ails  her,  is  the  consequence  of  sedentary  confinement, 
and  want  of  exercise.  Let  her  rise  early,  and  attend  to 
those  domestic  duties  which,  from  your  age  and  infirmi- 
ties, you  should  now  resign  to  her.  Let  her  eat  plain 
and  simple  food,  instead  of  those  dainties  with  which  you 
indulge  her  capricious  fancies.  She  must  stir  about  and 
employ  herself  in  sweeping,  and  dusting,  and  when  the 
weather  is  clear,  be  it  ever  so  cold,  let  her  equip  herself 
in  a  pair  of  thick  solid  shoes,  woolen  stockings,  and  a 
comfortable  cloak,  and  take  a  long  walk  in  the  frosty 
air ;  and  she  will  soon  become  a  stout,  healthy  young 
woman." 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,   OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       161 

Poor  Matilda !  this  was  a  sad  thrust  to  her  vanity  and 
indolence.  She — to  whom  the  slightest  exertion  was 
thought  an  impossibility,  to  be  told  to  sweep  and  to  dust ! 
those  menial  employments  which  she  thought  belonged 
only  to  servants  to  perform  !  it  was  insolence  to  mention 
such  a  thing !  to  lay  aside  her  silk  stockings  and  French 
slippers,  and  clothe  her  fairy  feet  in  woolen  hose,  and 
thick  soled  shoes,  he  might  as  well  have  recommended 
her  to  wear  a  plaid,  domestic,  and  a  tow  linen  apron ! 
And  she — who  had  so  often  complacently  surveyed  her 
pale  and  interesting  face,  and  supposed  delicate  frame  in 
her  toilet  mirror,  she, — predicted  to  become  that  horror 
of  all  horrors — a  stout  healthy  young  woman  ! — the  bare 
supposition  was  insulting  her  !  The  honest  Physician, 
of  course,  was  dismissed,  as  being  incapable  of  under- 
standing her  case,  and  a  more  flattering  one  was  kept  in 

pay- 

"  When  I  heard  a  year  or  two  afterward  of  Matilda's 
marriage,  I  thought  that  from  her  having  taken  upon 
herself  the  responsibility  of  a  wife,  and  a  step-mother, 
that  she  must  be  altered  for  the  better,  or  that  if  she  were 
still  the  same,  that  the  new  ties,  and  duties  she  had  as- 
sumed, would  soon  rouse  her  from  her  selfish  indulgence. 
But  when  I  first  visited  her  after  her  removal  to  Phila- 
delphia, I  found  her  unchanged,  for  the  habit  had  been 
too  firmly  fixed  to  be  easily  removed. 

"  Her  husband  at  first  indulged  her  whims  as  her  mother 
had  done, — but  she  exacted  so  much,  that  he  at  length 
saw  he  was  fostering  her  selfishness  and  indolence. 
The  judicious  means  that  he  took  to  cure  her,  were  con- 
sidered harsh  and  cruel,  and  she  added  the  supposition 
that  she  was  a  neglected  wife,  to  her  other  foolish  fancies. 
Poor  Mr.  Granville  !  I  pity  him  from  my  heart ;  his  first 
wife  was  indeed  a  help-meet  to  him  in  his  early  struggles 
in  commencing  the  world,  but  his  last  is  only  a  burthen 


162       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

and  expense."  When  Mrs.  Thomas  had  finished  her 
history  of  Matilda,  I  clearly  saw  the  cause  of  the  change 
that  had  taken  place  in  her,  since  we  were  fellow  play- 
mates at  Oakwood,  and  I  thought  how  little  dependence 
is  to  be  placed  upon  mere  animal  spirits,  and  gayety  of 
disposition,  for  it  is  evident  that  those  only  can  sustain 
the  wear  and  tear  of  life,  and  its  duties,  who  are  unselfish 
in  heart,  and  cheerful  by  principle. 

Matilda  returned  my  visit,  the  next  week  after  I  called 
on  her,  and  invited  my  young  friend,  and  myself,  to 
spend  the  next  day  with  her.  When  we  entered  the 
parlor,  we  found  Matilda  lying  on  an  ottoman,  in  all  the 
affected  languor  of  indisposition.  Soon  after  we  were 
seated,  she  questioned  Eliza  Wharton,  respecting  the 
most  prominent  symptoms  of  her  complaint, — and,  as  she 
simply  repeated  them,  Matilda  replied  at  every  pause, 
"I  have  long  suffered  this,  in  the  most  distressing  degree. 
That  is  just  what  I  have  felt,"  &c.  And  when  Eliza 
remarked,  how  much  she  was  relieved  by  the  course  of 
treatment  pursued  by  her  attending  physician,  Mrs. 
Granville  said  "I  must  consult  him  on  my  case,  perhaps  I 
should  also  be  benefited,  but  I  fear  my  complaint  is  of 
too  long  continuance,  and  too  firmly  seated,  to  indulge 
such  a  hope." 

A  visitor  coming  in,  interrupted  the  conversation,  and 
when  the  ceremony  of  introducing  us  was  over,  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  between  the  lady  and  Mrs.  Granville, 
ensued. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  look  so  well  and  blooming, 
Mrs.  Granville,  how  thankful  I  should  be  for  the  share 
of  health  that  you  enjoy.  I  am  just  recovering  from  one 
of  my  severe  attacks,  and  have  taken  a  ride  this  morning 
to  try  the  "effect  of  its  exercise." 

"  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  had  been  ill,  Mrs.  Manton, 
I  should  never  have  supposed,"  replied  Matilda. 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       163 

quite  unwell  this  morning,  I  assure  you,  my  cheeks  are 
flushed  by  sitting  too  near  the  fire,  when  I  was  suffering 
from  excessive  chillings.  I  wish  it  were  the  bloom  of 
health, — but  I  fear  it  may  be  a  hectic,  for  I  often  think 
that  my  lungs  are  affected.  Something  like  a  slight 
chill  comes  on  every  morning  when  I  leave  my  chamber, 
and  come  in  contact  with  the  cold  air.  I  will  be  forced 
to  follow  the  plan  recommended  to  Mrs.  Smith,  to  have 
my  room  heated  to  a  certain  height  by  the  thermometer, 
and  to  keep  its  atmosphere  always  equable,  for  I  cannot 
bear  the  least  sudden  change  of  temperature,  without  feel- 
ing it  very  sensibly." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  Mrs.  Granville,  I  fear  you  imagine 
yourself  worse  than  you  really  are.  If  you  followed  my 
example  and  used  more  exercise  in  the  open  air,  you 
would  be  quite  well.  If  I  gave  up  as  you  do,  I  should 
be  ill  indeed,  nothing  but  exertion  and  energy,  keep  me 
alive.  Dr.  Fanshawe  says,  that  he  believes  I  would 
strive  to  get  up  and  walk  down  stairs,  if  I  should  faint 
away  in  making  the  effort.  I  have  not  eaten  enough  for 
the  last  week  to  satisfy  a  bird  for  a  day, — and  yet  you 
see  my  spirits  have  not  failed  me,  and  my  activity  is  as 
great  as  that  of  some  women  who  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  be  sick.  I  have  not  slept  for  several  nights, 
and  as  soon  as  I  take  the  slightest  food  my  stomach  re- 
jects it,  and  from  several  symptoms  that  I  read  in  a  case, 
I  think  it  probable  that  an  ossification  of  the  stomach  is 
taking  place,  as  the  case  was  very  similar  to  mine.  My 
husband,  and  the  Doctor,  try  to  laugh  me  out  of  this  notion, 
but  I  suppose  they  are  afraid  I  should  become  depressed, 
and  wanted  to  hide  the  truth  from  me.  My  spirits,  how- 
ever, bear  me  up  under  all  my  sufferings." 

I  was  amused  as  well  as  saddened  by  the  conversation 
between  these  rival  invalids  ;  no  two  belles  ever  tried  to 
outvie  each  other,  in  exhibiting  their  respective  attractions, 


164      MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

with  more  animation  and  interest  than  did  these  two  hy- 
pochondriacs in  recounting  their  pains,  symptoms,  and 
distressing  feelings.  What  a  strange,  incongruous  man- 
ifestation of  human  vanity,  and  ambition  !  These  beg- 
gars for  sympathy,  revealed  every  evidence  of  indisposi- 
tion, with  as  much  ostentatious  eagerness  as  the  poor 
mendicant  who  uncovers  his  sores  and  wounds,  to  extort 
pity  and  alms  from  the  passer  by.  And  these  women 
were  wives  and  mothers,  those  above  all  others,  whose 
duties  made  it  needful  for  them  to  forget  their  own 
trifling  ailments,  and  minister  to  the  wants  and  necessi- 
ties of  those  so  dependent  on  their  exertions.  Not  hav- 
ing seen  Sophia  Granville  since  we  came,  I  asked  for 
her,  and  Matilda  replied,  "  she  is  confined  to  her  bed,  by 
the  order  of  her  physician,  which  I  think  is  quite  unne- 
cessary, as  her  cough  is  better,  although  she  is  still  fee- 
ble." Upon  my  requesting  permission  to  see  her,  Matilda 
rang  the  bell  for  the  servant  to  conduct  me  to  Sophia's 
room. 

When  I  entered,  I  found  she  was  sleeping.  The  phy- 
sician was  seated  by  the  fire,  waiting  until  she  should 
awake,  and  upon  my  asking  if  he  thought  her  better,  he 
shook  his  head  sadfy,  and  said,  "  I  fear  the  dear  child  will 
never  be  better  in  this  life.  Her  cold  has  been  so  long 
neglected,  that  it  has  settled  on  her  lungs.  The  case  is 
a  hopeless  one,  and  all  that  I  can  do  is  to  alleviate  her 
sufferings.  Her  constitution  is  extremely  delicate,  and 
she  has  been  tasked  beyond  her  strength.  She  possesses 
her  poor  mother's  amiable,  self-sacrificing  disposition, 
and  the  indolent  and  selfish  woman  who  took  her  place, 
has  laid  upon  this  tender  child  a  burden  too  heavy  to  be 
borne.  Much  as  I  pity  Mr.  Granville,  I  cannot  help 
blaming  him  severely  for  not  having  prevented  this 
shameful  imposition." 

When  Sophia  roused  from  her  uneasy  slumber,  the 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE    IMAGINARY  INVALID.       165 

physician  went  to  her,  and  she  held  her  hand  out  to  him, 
saying1,  "How  long  have  you  been  here,  Doctor,  why  did 
you  not  wake  me  ?  I  am  fearful  you  have  Jet  me  engross 
too  much  of  your  time."  When  she  saw  me,  she  wel- 
comed me  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  kindly  inquired  re- 
specting the  health  of  my  young  friend.  I  asked  her 
how  she  felt,  and  she  gently  replied,  "  my  pain  is  not 
very  great,  and  this  weakness  I  hope  will  soon  be  re- 
moved, as  soon  as  my  kind  physician  here,  will  let  me 
exert  myself.  He  makes  me  too  helpless  and  trouble- 
some, by  keeping  me  in  bed  to  be  wailed  on,  do  you  not 
think  so  ?" 

This  was  all  that  this  dear  girl  said  to  me  respecting 
her  own  suffering.  She  tried  to  turn  the  conversation 
from  herself  by  expressing  her  sympathy  for  others.  "  I 
am  so  glad,"  said  she,  "  that  Miss  Wharton  is  better,  how 
happy  will  she  feel  when  she  is  well  enough  to  return  to 
her  mother.  She  then  addressed  herself  to  her  physi- 
cian, who  was  an  old  friend  and  medical  attendant  of  her 
departed  mother,  and  asked  after  the  different  members 
of  his  family.  All  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  seemed  to 
be  engaged  for  others.  She  spoke  not  of  herself,  except 
in  answer  to  the  physician's  inquiries,  and  bore  all  her 
sufferings  without  a  murmur,  or  complaint.  Every  now 
and  then,  I  noticed  a  sudden  contraction  of  her  brow,  that 
revealed  the  presence  of  some  acute  pain,  but  when  this 
passed  off,  she  would  resume  the  conversation,  with  a 
sweet,  placid  smile,  while  her  smooth,  beautiful  forehead 
looked  as  if  pain,  or  sorrow,  had  never  brought  even  a 
transient  wrinkle  over  it.  I  took  her  delicate  taper  hand 
in  mine,  as  I  stood  by  her  bedside,  to  bid  her  farewell, 
and  she  begged  me  to  take  to  Eliza  some  fine  grapes 
she  had  just  received,  "  for"  said  she,  "  I  have  found  them 
very  delightful  and  refreshing.  How  thankful  I  ought 
to  be,  my  Dear  Miss  Maitland,  for  all  the  blessings  and 


166       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

attentions  bestowed  on  me,  for  many  a  poor  creature  is 
confined  to  a  bed  of  sickness,  without  any  of  these  allevi- 
ations. I  often  think  how  great  must  be  the  suffering, 
when  sickness  and  poverty,  with  its  sad  destitution  of  all 
comforts,  have  both  to  be  borne."  I  kissed  the  flushed 
cheek  of  the  invalid,  and  promised  to  see  her  again  very 
soon. 

When  I  returned  to  the  parlor,  Matilda  asked  me  if  I 
did  not  think  that  Sophia  would  soon  be  well.  "  I  am 
certain  that  she  would  be  entirely  cured,"  said  she,  "  if 
she  were  only  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Lafont,  for  he  is  so 
successful  in  all  pulmonary  affections.  Mr.  Granville, 
however,  will  not  take  my  advice,  as  he  thinks  there  is 
no  physician,  like  old  Dr.  Bertrand,  who  has  attended  the 
family  for  many  years, — but  his  system  of  practice  is  too 
antiquated  to  suit  me,  and  I  always  have  my  own  physi- 
cian. If  Sophia  were  permitted  to  take  Dr.  Lafont's 
celebrated  cough  drops,  and  to  exercise  freely  through  the 
house,  she  would  gain  her  strength  more  rapidly  than  by 
lying  in  bed.  If  I  were  to  lie  in  bed  for  a  week,  I  should 
be  even  more  feeble  than  she  is.  But  I  use  more  exer- 
tion than  she  is  allowed  to  do." 

"  I  fear  she  has  already  exerted  herself  beyond  her 
strength,"  I  replied,  "  and  that  this  has  added  to  her  dis- 
ease. Poor  Sophia  is  ill,  I  fear,  dangerously  so.  Yet, 
how  patient,  and  uncomplaining  she  is."  "  It  is  chiefly 
debility  that  ails  her,"  replied  Matilda,  "  her  cough  is 
only  a  slight  hacking  one,  and  she  does  not  suffer  half 
the  pain,  or  distressing  sensations  that  I  do." 

I  saw  that  Matilda  was  determined  not  to  acknowledge 
to  herself,  or  another,  the  extent  of  Sophia's  danger,  lest 
it  should  detract  from  her  own  claim,  in  being  the  greater 
invalid  of  the  two,  and  I  felt  too  much  disgusted  by  her 
cold-hearted  selfishness,  to  make  any  farther  remarks  on 
the  subject  of  Sophia's  indisposition.  Eliza  and  I  took 


MATILDA  HAEWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       167 

leave  of  her  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  she  had  made 
herself  so  uninteresting  and  tiresome,  by  her  repeated  re- 
capitulation of  her  own  fancied  ailments,  that  we  were 
glad  to  shorten  our  stay. 

We  sent  frequently  to  know  how  Sophia  was,  as  no 
visitors  were  allowed  to  see  her,  on  account  of  an  abscess 
on  the  lungs,  which  was  discovered  upon  an  examination 
that  took  place  a  few  days  after  I  saw  her.  We  had  but 
little  inclination  to  repeat  our  visit  to  Matilda,  dreading 
to  encounter  her  wearisome  egotism.  But  in  less  than 
two  weeks  after  the  day  we  spent  with  Matilda,  I  received 
the  following  note  from  her. 


i  by  coming  to  sit  up         d| 
rarefe  may  not  live     j^'j 
vefPind  strength  are 
:  with  her.     I  calcu- 


"  MY  DEAR  ELLEN, 

•'  You  will  oblige  me  very  much  by  coming  to  sit  up 
with   Sophia,  as  Dr.   Bertrand  fears 
through  the  night,  and  my  own  nerv< 
not  equal  to  the  fatigue  of  watching  with  her. 
late  upon  our  old  acquaintance  in  making  this  claim  on 
your  services.     Do  not  disappoint  me. 
"  Your  sick  friend, 

MATILDA." 

I  lost  no  time  in  acceding  to  this  request,  and  was 
deeply  distressed  at  the  painful  intelligence  of  Sophia's 
expected  death.  Although  I  had  seen  so  little  of  her,  yet 
I  felt  as  much  interested  in  the  dear  sufferer  as  if  I  had 
known  her  for  years,  and  was  willing  to  do  what  I  could 
for  her.  Upon  my  arrival  at  the  house,  Matilda  expressed 
her  gratification,  and  said,  "  I  am  thankful  for  your  kind 
consideration  in  saving  me  from  the  fatiguing  duty,  for  I 
know  that  my  own  life  would  be  sacrificed,  were  I  to 
attempt  to  sit  up  with  her.  The  loss  of  sleep,  and  the 
gloom  of  a  dying  bed,  would  be  more  than  T  could  bear. 
My  duty  to  my  family  requires  that  I  should  be  careful 
of  my  own  health,  for  the  life  of  a  mother  is  too  valuable 


168       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

to  be  needlessly  risked.  An  unmarried  woman  has  no 
one  dependent  on  her,  and  you  cannot  tell,  my  dear  Ellen, 
what  it  is  to  feel  this  pressing  necessity  of  saving  our 
own  strength.  What  would  become  of  my  husband  and 
children,  if  I  were  as  near  death  as  poor  Sophia !" 

I  could  not  help  thinking  that  her  loss  would  not  be 
half  so  severely  felt  by  her  husband  or  children  as  that 
of  the  young,  self-sacrificing  Sophia,  who  had  done  so 
much  for  them.  Matilda  was  grieved  at  the  idea  of  los- 
ing her,  but  there  was  more  of  selfishness  than  of  heart- 
felt sorrow.  She  wept  for  herself  more  than  for  her 
dying  step-daughter. 

Matilda  did  not  attend  me  to  the  sick  room,  for  she 
said  her  nerves  were  too  weak  to  bear  the  sight  of  her 
husband's  grief  agd  Sophia's  struggling  agonies.  She 
went  only  as  fa^Bs  her  own  chamber,  saying  to  me, 
"  Put  your  hand  ^n  my  heart,  and  feel  how  it  is  palpitat- 
ing, I  am  too  much  agitated,  I  must  try  to  get  a  little  rest, 
that  I  may  become  more  composed."  She  went  to  her 
bad  to  lose  her  sorrow  in  sleep,  and  I  proceeded  to  the 
apartment  where  the  dear  Sophia  Granville  lay  dying. 
When  I  entered,  I  found  her  father  bending  over  her,  in 
all  the  distraction  of  his  tortured  feelings.  She  had  just 
fallen  into  a  restless  slumber,  from  exhaustion  after  a 
severe  spell  of  coughing.  When  she  roused,  she  ex- 
tended her  hand  to  welcome  me,  and  after  having  taken 
a  reviving  draught,  her  strength  and  spirits  seemed  to  be 
so  far  resuscitated  that  she  spoke  with  apparent  ease  and 
cheerfulness.  Just  at  this  time  her  physician  came  into 
the  room,  and  Mr.  Granville  said  to  him  in  a  joyful  tone, 
"  Sophia  looks  so  much  brighter  to-day,  Doctor,  and  seems 
so  much  easier,  that  she  may  yet  be  spared  to  me." 

Dr.  Bertrand  was  too  honest  to  encourage  a  hope  so 
fallacious,  for  he  too  well  knew  the  nature  of  the  insidi- 
ous disease.  He  was  conscious  that  it  was  the  last  kind- 
ling up  of  the  flame  of  life,  previous  to  its  final  extinction. 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       169 

Sophia  answered  her  father  and  said,  "  No,  my  dear 
father,  I  shall  never  recover,  I  feel  that  my  moments  are 
numbered,  and  now  that  I  enjoy  this  transient  revival,  I 
should  like  to  see  mother  and  the  dear  children  once 
more.  Let  them  be  brought  to  me."  Mr.  Granville  rang 
the  bell,  and  told  the  servant  that  his  daughter  wished  to 
see  Mrs.  Granville  and  the  children.  The  nurse  came 
in  soon  afterward  with  the  little  band  of  brothers  and 
sisters,  saying  that  Mrs.  Granville  was  lying  down,  and 
felt  too  unwell  to  come  into  the  room.  A  flash  of  wounded 
feeling  passed  over  Mr.  Granville's  face,  and  he  sighed 
deeply,  but  made  no  reply.  He  took  the  children  one  by 
one  to  kiss  their  beloved  sister.  Sophia  took  a  tender, 
affectionate  farewell  of  each,  and  when  the  last  one  was 
brought  to  her,  the  dear  little  babe  she  had  watched  over 
so  faithfully  and  loved  so  much,  she  drew  it  towards  her 
with  all  a  mother's  fondness,  and  laid  its  soft  cheek 
against  hers.  The  dear  infant  threw  its  little  arm  round 
her  neck,  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  Tears  of 
affection  and  sorrow  trickled  down  the  sunken  cheeks  of 
the  dying  one,  and  she  said  to  her  father,  "  Take  care  of 
dear  little  Mary  when  I  am  gone."  Poor  Mr.  Granville 
was  too  much  convulsed  by  grief  to  make  any  reply — my 
heart  ached  for  him.  When  the  nurse  drew  near  to  take 
the  infant,  she  begged  that  it  might  remain  beside  her  a 
little  longer.  She  pressed  it  to  her  bosom,  and  looked 
round  on  all  the  beloved  children  with  a  long,  earnest 
gaze,  as  if  she  were  unwilling  to  give  them  up.  The 
physician  fearing  that  her  emotions  would  hasten  her  end, 
requested  that  they  might  be  taken  away. 

Her  eyes  followed  them  as  they  left  the  room,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  she  seemed  engaged  in  silent  prayer.  A 
soft,  tranquil  expression  came  over  her  countenance,  and 
she  said,  with  a  sweet  smile  of  peaceful  resignation,  "  I 
leave  them  in  the  hands  of  my  Heavenly  Father,  who 
15 


170       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

loves  them  far  more  than  I  do.  I  am  now  willing  to 
depart  and  be  with  my  Saviour.  He  has  softened  the 
pain  of  separation,  by  enabling  me  to  trust  them  to  Him. 
He  loved  little  children  and  blessed  them  when  on  earth, 
and  does  he  not  bless  and  guard  them  with  equal  love 
now?  They  are  his  peculiar  care,  and  it  is  He  who 
sends  ministering  angels  to  watch  over  them  and  shield 
them  from  harm.  They  are  the  little  lambs  of  his  flock, 
he  bears  them  gently  in  his  arms,  and  places  them  in 
safety  within  his  fold." 

As  soon  as  she  ceased  speaking,  a  painful  struggling 
for  breath  came  on — she  clasped  her  father's  hand,  and 
looked  up  into  his  face,  saying  in  broken  accents,  "father, 
weep  not  so  bitterly,  those  dear  ones  that  are  left  to  you 
will  comfort  you.  Jesus  himself  will  be  your  comforter. 
It  is  He  that  calls  me  home — all  is  peace."  Her  voice 
fell  to  a  low  whisper  as  the  last  words  were  passing  her 
lips,  and  a  quiet  sleep  came  over  her.  Her  father  sank 
into  a  chair,  exhausted  by  the  violent  burst  of  grief  to 
which  he  had  given  way,  and  a  death-like  stillness  per- 
vaded the  room.  We  could  just  distinguish  her  gentle 
breathing,  and  sat  in  silence  for  fear  of  disturbing  her. 
At  last  even  this  seemed  to  cease,  the  physician  softly 
approached  the  bed,  and  touching  her  hand,  said  with  a 
deep  sigh,  "  She  is  gone !" 

The  poor  father  hearing  this,  started  from  his  torpor 
with  convulsive  energy,  and  raved  like  one  distracted. 
He  bitterly  reproached  his  wife,  and  blamed  himself  for 
his  neglect  and  inattention.  "  My  poor  dying  Mary," 
said  he,  "  placed  our  dear  Sophia  in  my  arms,  entreating 
me  to  be  both  father  and  mother  to  her.  Little  did  I 
think  I  could  so  soon  break  this  promise,  by  giving  her 
into  the  hands  of  a  selfish  step-mother.  She  was  all  that 
was  left  to  me  by  my  angel  wife,  and  she  too  is  taken 
from  me,  but  I  have  deserved  it  all — wretched,  cruel 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE    IMAGINARY  INVALID.      171 

father,  my  remorse  is  now  my  punishment.     But  she  is 
happy — she  has  gone  to  her  mother  and  her  Saviour." 

Upon  the  day  appointed  for  the  funeral,  I  went  to  take 
the  last  look  upon  the  face  of  the  young  and  beautiful 
Sophia  Granville.  As  I  gazed  on  her  corpse  as  it  lay 
cradled  in  the  coffin,  a  strangely  mingled  feeling  came 
over  me,  too  sad  to  be  called  happiness  and  yet  too  calm 
and  soothing  to  be  grief.  Her  countenance  wore  a  sweet, 
placid  smile,  and  she  looked  like  an  infant  in  a  quiet 
sleep.  I  thought  that  for  her  pure  spirit  it  was  a  blissful 
exchange.  She  had  left  the  world  with  its  sins,  its  self- 
ishness and  its  trials,  for  a  home  of  peace,  holiness  and 
love.  I  mused  on  all  she  had  escaped,  by  being  thus 
early  called  to  die.  If  she  had  been  spared  to  continue 
here,  what  might  she  not  have  suffered !  Her  heart,  so 
full  of  warm,  self-sacrificing  affection,  might  have  been 
crushed  by  the  heartlessness  of  others.  She  might  have 
lived  to  endure  that  bitterest  agony  of  a  wounded  spirit, 
when  we  are  forced  to  hide  from  the  world  the  hand  that 
inflicts  the  injury,  and  to  conceal  the  sufferings  we  have 
to  bear.  It  was  her  happier  fate  to  be  gathered  from 
earth  in  the  dewy  freshness  of  her  blossoming,  ere  worldly 
cares  or  sorrows  had  left  her  in  a  blighted,  leafless  stem. 
She  had  never  known  harshness  or  unkindness,  for  even 
Matilda,  cold  and  selfish  as  she  was,  had  never  seemed 
cruel  or  unjust  to  her.  Although  there  was  a  passive 
cruelty  in  permitting  Sophia  to  assume  so  heavy  a  bur- 
den, yet  the  dear  girl  undertook  the  charge  willingly, 
without  its  even  being  required  from  her.  She  felt  for 
Matilda,  and  believed  in  her  fancied  illness,  for,  as  yet, 
she  had  not  learned  to  read  the  darker  pages  of  the  human 
heart,  and  was  happy  in  her  unconsciousness  of  what  its 
future  knowledge  would  have  revealed.  It  was  thus,  I 
thought,  and  felt,  as  I  stood  beside  the  inanimate  form 
that  was  so  soon  to  be  placed  in  its  last  dark  resting 


172       MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

place,  for  I  knew  that  her  spirit  was  rejoicing  in  the  re- 
gions of  light  and  glory.  Matilda,  true  to  her  selfish 
nature,  even  in  her  grief,  tried  to  excite  the  sympathy  of 
those  who  visited  her,  by  dwelling  on  the  additional  cares 
that  devolved  on  her  by  the  loss  of  one  so  useful,  and 
efficient,  as  Sophia  had  been.  But  the  feeling  that  more 
now  depended  on  her,  had  no  effect  in  rousing  her  to  ex- 
ertion. She  lived  on  as  helplessly,  and  as  uselessly,  as 
she  had  done  before,  until  her  husband  finding  the  disor- 
dered state  of  his  uncomfortable  home,  and  the  waste 
and  extravagance  that  ensued  from  having  no  one  to 
manage  his  household,  was  forced  to  give  up  housekeep- 
ing, and  take  his  family  to  a  boarding-house,  exchanging 
his  family  fireside,  for  the  hearth-stone  of  strangers. 

Many  years  afterward,  I  heard  of  Matilda.  Mr.  Gran- 
ville  had  died  several  years  before,  leaving  her  a  comfort- 
able support.  She  had  placed  all  her  children  in  board- 
ing-schools, that  she  might  be  relieved  from  the  fatigue 
of  attending  them,  and  she  was  leading  the  same  useless 
existence,  always  considering  herself  in  a  dying  condi- 
tion, yet  living  on,  year  after  year,  without  the  love  or 
respect  of  her  sons  and  daughters  ;  the  by-word,  and 
ridicule  of  her  acqaintance,  and  a  wearisome  burden  to 
her  friends.  I  have  seen  so  many  women,  who  might 
have  been  a  blessing  to  those  around  them,  become  use- 
less drones  in  society,  by  this  selfish  indulgence  in  mag- 
nifying every  trifling  indisposition,  that  I  would  urge 
'  every  mother  to  guard  against  this  evil  in  her  daughters. 
For  when  it  is  traced  to  its  source,  we  usually  find  its 
commencement  in  that  period,  when  a  girl  is  still  under 
her  mother's  guidance.  The  cares  and  responsibilities  of 
married  life,  are  too  healthful  for  the  egotism  of  hypo- 
chondriacs ;  if  the  disease  appear  then,  it  has  been  taken 
into  the  system  at  an  earlier  date.  Parental  fondness, 
like  every  other  earthly  affection  has  danger  in  its  ex- 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OB  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.       173 

cesses.  The  slightest  suffering,  or  indisposition  in  a  be- 
loved child,  is  tenderly  inquired  into,  and  attended  to; 
she  is  nursed,  cared  for,  and  waited  on,  as  if  she  were  to 
be  kept  through  life  as  a  nursling  plant.  But  if  she  is  to 
become  a  wife,  and  mother,  how  different  should  be  her 
training  !  She  must  be  taught,  that  it  is  woman's  lot  to 
minister  unto  others.  To  fulfill  this  lot,  she  must  learn 
to  bear  pain,  sickness,  and  disappointment,  with  patience 
and  fortitude.  So  far  from  expecting  attention  to  every 
little  ailment  she  may  experience,  she  must  not  dwell  on 
them,  but  must  rouse  herself  from  the  disabling  effects  of 
indisposition,  by  strenuous,  persevering  exertion  in  the 
path  of  duty.  Her  husband  will  look  to  her  as  the  head 
of  his  household,  as  the  one  who  is  responsible  for  the 
care  and  management  of  all  that  he  entrusts  to  her.  The 
numerous  and  pressing  duties  of  domestic  life,  must  be 
attended  to,  though  her  strength  may  fail  under  her  con- 
stant and  fatiguing  exertions.  For  her  helpless  babes, 
she  must  endure  broken  rest  and  long  and  weary  hours  of 
watching,  when  sickness  comes  upon  them,  cradling  them 
in  her  arms,  resting  their  little  heads  on  her  bosom, 
whatever  may  be  her  own  feebleness  and  pain,  for  who 
can  so  faithfully  tend  them  as  a  mother,  and  to  whom 
else  do  they  look  as  their  own  proper  nurse  ? 

Since  these  are  woman's  duties,  how  illy  is  she  pre- 
pared for  them  in  her  girlhood,  by  the  mother  who 
"keeps  even  the  winds  of  heaven  from  visiting  her  too 
roughly."  Let  every  mother  think  of  these  things,  and, 
as  she  values  her  daughter's  happiness,  or  future  useful- 
ness, let  her  teach  her  "  to  bear  the  yoke  in  her  youth," 
and  to  provide  for  after  duties,  by  instilling  into  her  mind 
the  necessity,  and  inculcating  the  practice  of  unshrinking 
fortitude  and  unwearying  activity,  of  patient,  uncom- 
plaining endurance  of  pain. 

Let  me  urge  it  also,  upon  the  young,  to  resist  this  in- 
15* 


174       MATILDA  HARWOOD,    OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID. 

sidious  habit  of  dwelling  upon  trifling  feelings  of  indis- 
position, in  its  first  advances.  The  female  frame  is  so 
delicate  in  its  organization,  and  physical  education  is  so 
little  attended  to,  that  almost  every  woman  who  has  not 
been  trained  to  active  employment,  is  subject,  more  or 
less,  to  occasional  suffering.  Dyspepsia  in  its  many 
forms,  and  its  endless  varieties,  is  so  common  at  the  pre- 
sent day,  that  we  scarcely  find  any  one  who  has  not  felt 
some  of  its  effects.  The  indolence,  loss  of  energy,  and 
lowness  of  spirits  that  it  produces,  tend  to  fix  it  most 
firmly  in  those  who  give  up  to  these  symptoms.  A  little 
exertion  in  resisting  these  feelings,  which  are  at  once  both 
the  cause  and  effect  of  this  indisposition,  would  do  much 
towards  arresting  its  progress.  Its  tendency  is  to  induce 
the  habit  of  exaggerating  every  ailment,  and  to  fill  the 
mind  with  morbid  selfishness,  Let  every  one  who  first 
becomes  conscious,  that  she  is  in  danger  of  yielding  to 
these,  rouse  at  once,  and  resolve  to  do  all  she  can  to  save 
herself  from  their  paralyzing  influence.  If  she  find  her 
thoughts  brooding  over  every  slight  variation  in  her  feel- 
ings, and  anticipating  the  approach  of  some  fatal  disease, 
from  every  unpleasant  sensation, — let  her  turn  her  atten- 
tion to  some  active  occupation,  which  will  so  far  engross 
her  mental  and  physical  powers,  as  to  leave  no  time  for 
this  indolent  and  ruinous  habit.  If  she  is  disposed  to 
talk  continually  of  her  various  ailments,  let  her  remem- 
ber that  even  the  nearest  and  dearest  relative,  or  friend, 
will  soon  weary  under  such  discourse, — and  that,  so  far 
from  exciting  the  sympathy  she  so  childishly  seeks,  this 
is  the  very  means  to  shut  her  out  from,  all  sympathy,  even 
for  her  real  and  acutest  sufferings.  No  one  is  disposed 
to  give  heed  to  the  constant  complainer,  for  if  there  be  no 
visible  effect  of  indisposition,  we  are  apt  to  doubt  its  ex- 
istence. 

How  imperious  then  is  the  necessity,  that  every  one 


MATILDA  HARWOOD,  OR  THE  IMAGINARY  INVALID.      175 

should  watch  narrowly  for  the  slightest  indication  of  this 
growing  habit,  so  as  to  check  it  in  its  first  beginning. 
Once  firmly  rooted  by  indulgence,  neither  genius,  nor 
mental  cultivation,  neither  conjugal,  or  maternal  affection, 
and  not  even  religion  itself,  seems  able  to  deliver  its  vic- 
tims from  its  wretched  influence.  The  history  of  Ma- 
tilda Harvvood,  may  appear  to  be  too  strongly  drawn  to 
those  who  have  never  witnessed  the  effects  of  this  selfish 
brooding  over  every  trifling  indisposition, — but,  there  are 
many  who  will  feel  it  to  be  a  true  portrait  of  this  self-in- 
flicted monomania,  and  these  will  find  its  counterpart 
among  their  acquaintance  of  both  sexes.  For  it  is  by  no 
means  confined  to  woman  alone.  It  has  its  victims  among 
those  from  whom  we  naturally  expect  greater  strength  of 
mind,  and  a  higher  degree  of  moral  courage, — and  many 
a  man,  whose  gifts  of  intellect  enabled  him  to  sway  an 
influence  over  his  fellow-men,  has  recklessly  thrown 
himself  aside  in  utter  uselessness  and  inanity,  and  be- 
come as  poor  a  driveler,  and  dotard,  as  if  he  had  given 
himself  up  to  intemperance.  Our  capacity  for  action,  in 
any  sphere,  makes  action  in  that  sphere  an  imperative 
duty, — and  if  we  voluntarily  destroy  our  own  powers,  by 
any  course  of  self-indulgence,  we  will  be  as  answerable 
to  God  for  what  we  might  have  done,  as  we  will  be  for 
that  which  we  refuse  to  do,  when  our  ability  is  fully 
equal  to  all  that  He  has  required  from  us.  In  both  cases 
we  are  left  without  excuse. 


176 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SARAH   SHERMAN,   OR   THE   MECHANIC'S 
DAUGHTER. 

"  Plain  living  and  high  thinking." — WORDSWORTH. 

A  dignified,  but  most  rare,  and  difficult  union  this.  '  It  is  easy  to 
forget  the  common  cares  of  life,  and  easy  to  be  absorbed  in  them  ;  easy 
to  be  too  ethereal  for  any  occupation  but  thinking,  or  too  coarse  for  any 
questions,  beyond  such  as  have  reference  to  the  life  of  the  body ;  but  to 
find  taste,  and  time,  and  energy  for  both,  argues  such  a  balance  of  power, 
moral,  and  intellectual,  that  if  the  individual  cannot  receive  a  triumph, 
he  deserves  at  least,  an  oration.' — Miss  JEWSBUBY. 

"  True  refinement  inheres  within,  and  no  more  derives  its  character 
from  outward  trappings,  than  physical  symmetry,  owes  its  fair  propor- 
tions to  the  fringes,  with  which  fashion  encumbers  its  beauty." — ANON. 

IT  was  at  the  breaking  up  of  the  Oakwood  school,  that 
we  last  parted  from  Sarah  Sherman,  and  I  will  proceed 
with  her  history,  from  that  period,  in  the  consecutive  or- 
der of  its  incidents,  as  related  to  me  many  years  after- 
wards. 

When  the  worthy  Mr.  Sherman  was  returning  home 
with  his  beloved  daughter,  instead  of  continuing  in  the 
road  leading  to  the  town  where  he  resided  when  Sarah 
left  them,  he  turned  to  another,  which  took  a  different 
direction. 

"  Where  are  going  ather  ?"  said  she,  "  this  is  not  the 
route  you  used  to  travel ;  we  seem  to  be  going  farther 
from  home,  instead  of  getting  nearer  to  it." 

Her  father  smiled  as  he  replied,  "  I  am  taking  you 
home,  Sarah,  as  fast  as  our  little  horse  can  carry  us. 
Every  mile  brings  us  nearer  to  it,  so  that  when  you 
reach  there,  you  will  find  you  have  been  mistaken  in 
your  supposition." 


SARAH  SHERMAN.  177 

Sarah  was  wondering  how  this  seeming  difficulty 
could  be  solved,  but  was  content  to  wait  patiently,  as  she 
knew  her  father  never  said  what  was  untrue,  even  in 
jest.  And  after  riding  several  miles  farther,  Mr.  Sher- 
man stopped  at  a  gate,  and  when  he  had  opened  it,  again 
took  the  reins,  and  guided  his  horse  through  a  winding 
avenue  of  elms,  until  he  came  in  sight  of  a  neat  dwell- 
ing, surrounded  by  a  beautiful  lawn.  "  This  is  your  home 
Sarah,"  said  her  father,  "  how  do  you  like  the  change  ? 
I  could  not  tell  you  of  this  before,  as  I  wanted  to  take 
you  by  surprise." 

"  I  am  delighted  dear  father,  nothing  could  have  grati- 
fied me  more, — how  happy  I  shall  be." 

As  soon  as  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Sher- 
man came  out  to  meet  them,  and  her  daughter  was  folded 
in  her  arms.  "  How  much  you  have  grown,  my  Sarah," 
she  exclaimed,  "  but  you  look  delicate,  poor  thing  !  you 
have  pored  over  your  books,  until  you  have  injured  your 
health.  Now  since  your  sisters  are  married,  you  are  the 
only  girl  left  at  home,  so  you  must  run  about  in  the  fresh 
air,  and  help  me  attend  to  the  chickens,  and  the  dairy. 
You  will  then  soon  become  hearty,  and  your  cheeks  will 
he  as  rosy,  as  they  used  to  be,  before  you  loved  to  study. 
Moping  over  books,  does  no  one  any  good." 

Sarah  kissed  her  kind  mother,  and  promised  to  assist 
her  in  doing  whatever  she  wished. 

"  But  this  will  not  do  for  me  to  be  loitering  here,"  said 
the  active,  busy  Mrs.  Sherman,  then  addressing  herself 
to  her  maid  of  all  work,  who  had  just  come  to  the  door, 
to  look  at  the  stranger.  "  Susy,  have  you  brought  in  the 
supper  ?"  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  said,  "  Come 
in,  come  in  Sarah,  you  must  be  hungry  after  your  long 
ride.  It  will  be  time  enough  to-morrow  to  look  at  the 
flowers.  Susy,  call  Mr.  Sherman,  and  tell  him  supper  is 
ready.  Run  quick  Susy,  he  has  gone  down  to  the  stable." 


178  SARAH  SHERMAN. 

Sarah  accompanied  her  mother  to  the  room,  where  a 
plentiful  meal  was  laid  out,  tempting  with  all  the  luxu- 
ries of  country  fare, — and  set  off  to  the  best  advantage, 
by  clean  white  plates,  and  a  snowy  cloth  just  fresh  from 
the  folds. 

"  Put  plenty  of  cream  in  your  coffee,  Sarah,  we  are 
not  in  town,  now,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  this  butter. 
I  churned  it  this  morning,  before  sunrise.  Help  yourself 
more  freely  to  the  cakes,  why  child,  your  appetite  is  too 
mincing.  Your  lessons  have  taken  away  all  your  relish 
for  food.  I  always  told  your  father,  it  would  ruin  your 
health  to  study  so  much." 

Sarah  assured  her  mother  she  was  perfectly  well,  but 
her  mother  considered  a  keen  appetite  the  only  evidence 
of  good  health.  As  soon  as  supper  was  over,  Mrs.  Sher- 
man said  to  Sarah,  "  Come  up  stairs,  with  me,  I  will 
show  you  the  room  your  father  has  fitted  up  for  you." 

Sarah  was  conducted  by  her  mother  into  the  pleasant 
chamber  prepared  for  her,  and  her  heart  gratefully  ac- 
knowledged the  many  evidences  of  parental  kindness  in  its 
arrangements.  The  neat  bed  with  its  snow-white  counter- 
pane, the  tidy  toilet  with  its  muslin  drapery,  and  the  dimity 
curtains  that  shaded  the  windows,  bespoke  her  mother's 
thoughtful  care.  While  the  range  of  well-filled  book- 
shelves, a  handsome  portable  desk,  and  a  flower-stand, 
filled  with  pots  of  geranium,  mignonette,  and  other  beauti- 
ful exotics,  exhibited  her  kind  father's  attention  to  those 
tastes,  in  which  he  had  always  loved  to  indulge  her. 

"  How  do  you  like  your  room,  Sarah  ?"  said  her  grat- 
ified mother,  "  there  are  too  many  books  here,  by  a  great 
deal,  as  I  told  your  father,  but  he  would  get  them  for  you 
as  he  knew  you  were  so  fond  of  reading.  I  looked  over 
them,  when  he  brought  them  from  town,  but  there  was 
nothing  but  poetry,  philosophy,  history,  and  such  useless 


SARAH  SHERMAN.  179 

things,  and  not  one  cookery  book  among  them, — so  the 
next  time  I  went  to  town,  I  brought  you  '  The  Virginia 
Housekeeper,'  and  '  The  Frugal  Housewife,'  and  squeezed 
them  in  here,  on  the  lowest  shelf,  but  I  had  hard  work  to 
get  them  in,  for  your  father  had  the  shelves  so  well  filled 
with  other  books  not  half  so  good  for  you,  but  your  father 
says  you  will  like  his  choice  best.  But  you  will  study 
mine  too,  Sarah,  now  you  have  finished  your  schooling, 
I  know  you  will."  "  I  can  never  be  grateful  enough  to 
you,  and  my  dear  father,"  said  Sarah,  while  tears  of 
affection  filled  her  eyes,  at  this  touching  evidence  of  her 
parents'  kind  provision  for  her  comfort,  and  happiness. 
"  How  do  you  like  this  bureau,  and  washstand  ?  your  father 
had  them  made  for  you.  Look  at  thes  eclosets,"  contin- 
ued Mrs.  Sherman,  while  she  busied  herself  in  hanging 
up  Sarah's  bonnet,  folding  up  her  shawl,  and  laying  it  in 
its  place.  "  These  closets  are  very  convenient,  Sarah, 
and  I  hope  you  are  still  as  fond  of  order  and  neatness,  as 
you  were  before  you  went  to  school, — some  girls  become 
very  careless  when  they  go  to  a  boarding-school.  I  hope 
it  has  not  spoiled  you,  Sarah.  But  I  must  leave  you 
now,  as  I  have  to  give  out  the  supper  to  the  workmen. 
I  will  send  up  your  trunk,  and  you  can  employ  yourself 
in  unpacking  it,  and  laying  your  things  away,  while  I 
am  busy  down  stairs." 

The  busy  mother  then  went  to  attend  to  her  concerns, 
and  Sarah  walked  to  the  window  to  look  out  on  the  sweet 
rural  spot,  her  father  had  chosen  for  his  residence. 
A  beautiful  prospect  stretched  away  before  her.  A  fine 
range  of  green,  softly  swelling  hills,  bounded  the  horizon, 
behind  which,  the  sun  was  setting,  in  all  the  splendor  of 
a  richly  tinted  canopy  of  clouds.  At  their  base,  a  lovely 
valley  lay  in  shadow,  through  which,  a  stream  was  glid- 
ing, fringed  here  and  there  with  clumps  of  trees  and 
shrubs,  and  upon  its  grassy  banks,  her  father's  herds 


180  SARAH  SHERMAN. 

were  quietly  grazing.  A  fine  grove  of  old  oaks  rose  be- 
neath the  window,  whose  trunks  were  lighted  up  with 
the  red  rays  of  the  declining  sun,  and  the  green  sward 
from  which  they  sprung,  was  beautifully  varied  by  long 
lines  of  sunshine  and  lengthened  shadows,  as  interven- 
ing trees  or  intermediate  spaces  admitted,  or  obscured 
the  brilliant  hues  of  sunset.  Sarah  felt  all  this  beauty 
with  the  deep  rapture  of  a  poetic  taste,  and  fondly  dream- 
ed of  the  quiet  happiness  she  would  enjoy  in  rambling 
over  these  scenes, — long  after  day,  drinking  in  all  their 
sweet  influences, — and  finding  a  realization  of  the  ideal, 
even  in  the  actual  life  that  surrounded  her. 

As  she  thought  of  the  low,  uncomfortable  house,  in  its 
narrow  street,  in  which  she  had  passed  her  youth,  her 
heart  rose  in  a  silent  prayer  of  gratitude  to  God,  for  the 
pleasant  home  to  which  her  kind  father  had  brought  her, 
and  she  asked  for  Divine  assistance,  to  enable  her  to  be- 
come all  that  her  parents  wished  her  to  be. 

The  entrance  of  Susy,  with  her  trunk,  roused  her 
from  her  reverie,  and,  in  obedience  to  her  mother's  in- 
junction, she  immediately  commenced  the  work  of  un- 
packing, and  arranging  her  clothes,  according  to  her 
mother's  directions. 

The  next  morning  Sarah  arose  at  what  she  considered 
an  early  hour,  and  arrayed  herself  in  the  neat  working 
dress,  provided  for  her  by  her  economical  mother.  She 
hastened  down  stairs  to  assist  in  the  household  duties, 
and  found  that  her  mother  had  been  up  for  two  or  three 
hours  and  was  now  busy  in  her  dairy.  Soon  after 
Sarah  joined  her  Susy  came  in,  bearing  two  pails  brim- 
ming with  milk  fresh  and  warm  from  the  cows.  "  Here 
Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  Sherman,  "  is  nice  work  for  you,  strain 
this  milk  into  those  pans,  while  I  print  the  butter  I  have 
just  churned."  Sarah  obeyed  with  alacrity,  though  with 
a  little  awkwardness,  in  her  new  task,  and  ever  and  anon, 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  181 

as  she  stole  a  glance  upon  the  fresh  and  dewy  scene 
without,  she  longed  to  be  treading  the  green  sward  that 
looked  so  tempting,  but  she  resolutely  turned  to  her  work, 
resolving  to  finish  her  task  before  she  permitted  herself 
to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  rambling  among  the  fragrant 
flowers,  whose  breath  came  wafting  in  the  windows  upon 
the  morning  breeze.  As  soon  as  the  employments  allott- 
ed her  were  over,  she  put  on  her  gingham  bonnet  and 
took  a  delightful  range  over  the  woods  and  fields,  happy 
as  the  birds  who  were  singing  in  the  branches  above  her. 
She  found  a  little  nook  which  she  soon  fixed  on  as  her 
bower,  and  ran  to  ask  her  father's  consent  to  claim  it  as 
her  own,  and  to  adorn  it  as^suited  her  fancy.  This  was 
readily  granted  and  Sarah  sat  down  on  the  grassy  bank 
to  plan  her  improvements.  A  group  of  weeping  willows 
and  two  large  old  locust  trees  shaded  the  spot,  and 
around  their  trunks  a  fragrant  woodbine  clustered,  with 
its  graceful  drapery  of  twining  stems  richly  clothed  with 
leaves  and  blossoms. 

The  bees  from  a  hive  near  by,  were  flying  from  flower 
to  flower,  and  their  dreamy  hum  mingling  with  the  soft 
whisper  of  the  wind  lulled  her  into  a  delicious  reverie. 
What  a  sweet  place,  thought  she,  this  will  be  for  reading 
and  meditation  ;  a  rustic  seat,  a  little  table  for  my  books 
and  writing  implements,  a  few  more  vines  and  flowers 
planted  here  will  make  it  a  shady,  charming  retreat  for 
study,  even  in  the  most  sultry  hours.  It  was  indeed  a 
sweet,  picturesque  solitude,  and  the  beautiful  landscape 
that  opened  to  the  view  through  the  overarching  boughs, 
would  have  fascinated  any  one  who  had  a  heart  to  enjoy 
the  charms  of  rural  scenery.  The  gentle  eminence  on 
which  the  embowering  trees  were  grouped,  sloped  away 
into  a  green  sunny  meadow,  interspersed  at  distant  inter- 
vals with  lofty  oaks,  beneath  whose  shade  the  cattle  were 
sheltering  themselves  from  the  noon-tide  heat,  while  on 
16 


182  SARAH   SHERMAN. 

either  side  could  be  seen  a  lovely  perspective  of  hills  and 
valleys,  cultivated  fields  and  noble  forests. 

Many  were  the  happy  hours  that  Sarah  spent  in  this 
sweet  spot  in  reading  her  favorite  authors,  drinking  in 
the  sweet  influences  of  nature's  beauty,  or  in  indicting 
the  poetic  fancies,  and  the  musing  thoughts  that  filled 
her  mind  to  overflowing.  Never  having  been  accustom- 
ed to  congenial  companionship  at  home,  and  never  hav- 
ing sought  for  it  among  her  schoolmates,  she  felt  not 
the  want  of  a  kindred  mind,  for  her  books,  her  own 
thoughts  and  imaginings  were  to  her  all-sufficient. 

The  assiduity  and  industry  with  which  she  assisted 
her  mother,  saved  her  from  becoming  a  mere  bookworm; 
and  in  sacrificing  her  own  tastes  to  conform  to  what  her 
active  mother  thought  every  woman  should  be,  a  health- 
ful influence  was  shed  upon  her  character  of  which  she 
felt  the  benefit  in  after  life.  But  it  cost  her  many  a 
struggle.  Often  when  she  took  the  broom  or  duster  in 
her  hand  to  go  through  the  daily  routine  of  household 
occupations,  or  when  her  delicately  formed  fingers  were 
soiled  by  her  labor  in  burnishing  the  brass  ornaments 
and  iron  castings  of  the  parlor  stove,  the  sight  of  an  un- 
finished book  lying  open  on  the  table,  where  she  had 
laid  it,  the  soft  breeze  that  passed  over  her  brow,  or  a 
transient  glimpse  of  the  woods  and  meadows  that  caught 
her  eye  as  the  wind  stirred  aside  the  light  curtains  that 
shaded  the  windows,  were  to  her  temptations  hard  to  be 
resisted.  Sometimes  she  would  unconsciously  pause  in 
the  midst  of  her  task  and  sink  into  a  reverie,  picturing  to 
herself  the  happiness  of  a  life  of  literary  leisure  and  in- 
tellectual employments,  and,  at  others,  while  her  hands 
were  busy  in  her  uncongenial  occupations,  tears  filled 
her  eyes  and  melancholy  feelings  brooded  in  her  heart 
as  she  thought  how  unsuited  these  duties  were  to  her 
tastes,  and  remembered  how  many  hours  were  sacrificed 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  183 

to  them  which  might  have  been  devoted  to  her  studies 
had  her  situation  in  life  been  different.  She  knew  that 
to  some  women  these  household  labors  were  pleasures, 
that  her  mother  considered  them  as  agreeable  relaxations 
but  that  to  her  they  were  regarded  as  a  painful  necessity, 
from  which  she  would  have  been  glad  to  be  relieved. 
She  had  not  yet  learned  the  possibility  of  uniting  "  plain 
living  with  high  thinking,"  but  when  she  found  that 
these  dreamy  aspirations  after  the  ideal,  left  a  sickness 
of  heart  and  a  distaste  for  the  common  realities  and  ne- 
cessary duties  of  life,  her  sound  intellect  and  tender  con- 
science convinced  her  that  she  had  erred — and  she  re- 
solved to  go  cheerfully  onward  in  her  self-denying  duties, 
without  suffering  any  thing  to  lessen  her  alacrity.  The 
domestic  employments  which  at  first  were  so  irksome  to 
her,  became  easy  and  pleasant  from  the  force  of  habit, 
and  at  last  she  learned  to  pass  by  her  books  without  a 
sigh  of  regret  and  to  give  her  thoughts  and  attention  to 
the  labors  assigned  her,  conscious  that  the  time  given 
her  as  her  own  could  be  spent  in  pursuing  her  studies, 
without  the  self-reproach  of  having  neglected  any  thing 
necessary  for  woman  to  learn  or  of  having  acted  contrary 
to  her  mother's  wishes. 

Although  Mrs.  Sherman  considered  nothing  worthy  to 
be  called  employment  in  which  the  hands  were  left  to 
lie  idle,  and  looked  on  a  book  as  a  species  of  indolent 
recreation,  yet  she  permitted  Sarah  to  occupy  her  leisure 
hours  as  it  suited  her,  without  making  any  objection,  ex- 
cept an  occasional  admonition  respecting  the  injury  she 
might  receive  by  her  close  application.  By  activity  and 
a  careful  economy  of  time,  Sarah  gained  daily  opportu- 
nities to  add  to  her  stores  of  knowledge.  And  by  fol- 
lowing the  plan  of  study  recommended  to  her  by  Mrs. 
Norville,  her  mind  became  enriched  and  cultivated  to  an 
extent  that  few  of  her  sex  attain  even  under  the  most 


184  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

favorable  auspices.  Sarah  was  her  father's  idol,  and  he 
took  much  pride  in  her  attainments  although  he  knew 
they  surpassed  his  own,  but  her  mother  valued  her  most 
for  her  skill  and  industry  in  that  department  of  which 
she  was  so  competent  a  judge.  So  unassumingly  did 
this  retiring  girl  bear  her  knowledge,  that  no  one  knew 
the  extent  of  her  acquirements.  Mrs.  Sherman's  preju- 
dice against  learning  in  woman  was  gradually  overcome, 
when  she  found  that  her  beloved  daughter  had  not  been 
spoiled  by  it  as  she  had  often  feared  and  predicted.  The 
reserve  that  chilled  the  sensitive  Sarah,  when  with  those 
whom  she  knew  looked  on  her  as  their  inferior  in  station, 
was  never  thrown  aside,  and  her  actions  were  prompted 
by  the  sweet  and  gentle  affections  that  warmed  her  heart. 
She  was  with  those  that  loved  her,  and  her  kind,  affec- 
tionate parents  were  enough  for  her  to  love. 

Mr.  Sherman  became  so  popular  in  his  neighborhood 
and  so  highly  respected  for  his  good  sense  and  judgment 
by  all  that  knew  him,  that  he  was  frequently  urged  to 
become  a  candidate  for  the  Legislature.  His  consent 
was  at  length  obtained,  and  after  his  election,  he  was  de- 
sirous that  Sarah  should  accompany  him  to  the  seat  of 
government.  His  affection  made  him  wish  to  have  her 
with  him,  and  his  pride  in  her,  induced  him  to  introduce 
her  into  the  society  she  was  so  well  fitted  to  adorn. 
Sarah  was  so  happy  in  herself  and  in  her  seclusion,  that 
she  had  no  wish  for  any  other  companionship  than  her 
parents,  but  ever  anxious  to  gratify  her  father,  she  ex- 
pressed her  willingness  to  accompany  him,  if  her  mother 
should  not  feel  any  objection  to  be  left  alone.  Mrs. 
Sherman,  with  all  a  mother's  pride  in  her  lady-like 
daughter,  acceded  to  her  husband's  plan  with  ready  con- 
sent, telling  Sarah  that  there  was  no  danger  of  her  being 
lonesome  while  she  had  enough  to  employ  her  time  and 
attention. 


SARAH   SHERMAN.  185 

The  mild,  intellectual  beauty  of  Sarah  Sherman,  and 
the  quiet  dignity  and  refinement  of  her  manners  soon 
made  her  a  favorite  in  society.  The  association  with 
gifted  minds  and  cultivated  tastes  brought  out  the  rich 
treasures  of  her  knowledge,  which  had  so  long  lain  silent 
for  want  of  companionship,  and  the  charms  of  her  con- 
versation, so  unpretending  in  its  wisdom  and  so  attract- 
ive from  her  poetic  imagination,  drew  around  her  those 
who  were  capable  of  appreciating  her  talents.  Among 
her  admirers  there  was  one  whose  kindred  taste  and 
feeling  awakened  a  deep  interest  in  Sarah's  heart.  He 
was  a  lawyer  who  had  been  lately  admitted  to  the  bar, 
but  was  universally  spoken  of  as  a  young  man  of  high 
promise  and  extensive  acquirements.  He  was  at  first 
struck  with  the  superiority  of  Miss  Sherman  to  the  gen- 
erality of  females  with  whom  he  was  acquainted,  and 
when  he  found  that  her  character  and  disposition  were 
as  attractive  as  her  mind  and  person,  he  became  her  con- 
stant visitor.  He  read  with  her,  lent  her  his  favorite 
books  and  before  the  end  of  the  session  was  a  declared 
and  accepted  suitor.  At  first  Mr.  Sherman  felt  loth  to 
give  up  his  darling  Sarah  to  any  one,  but  when  he  found 
that  her  happiness  was  so  deeply  entwined  with  the  high- 
souled  and  talented  Charles  Glentworth,  he  gave  a  re- 
luctant consent  to  their  future  union.  Although  it  pained 
him  to  think  of  the  time  when  her  lover  should  claim  the 
fulfillment  of  his  promise;  yet  the  character  of  Charles 
was  such  that  he  could  feel  no  distrust  in  placing  his  be- 
loved daughter  under  his  protecting  care. 

To  Sarah,  this  event  awakened  many  new  and  delight- 
ful emotions.  She  had  never  known  what  it  was  to 
reveal  to  any  one,  the  thoughts  that  had  filled  her 
mind,  and  stirred  the  deep  enthusiasm  of  her  nature,  but 
now  there  was  a  dear  friend  near  her  to  whom  she  could 
express  every  sentiment  and  feeling  as  freely  as  if  com- 
16* 


186  SARAH  SHERMAN. 

muning  with  her  own  spirit.  The  young  affections  that 
had  slept  within  her  bosom,  rose  up  in  all  their  strength 
and  freshness,  and  she  experienced  for  the  first  time,  the 
sweet  happiness  of  loving,  and  being  loved,  by  one  who 
could  understand  and  appreciate  all  that  she  felt  and  en- 
joyed. The  thought  of  their  separation  gave  her  a  pain- 
ful sense  of  anticipated  loneliness,  but  she  looked  forward 
to  his  promised  visits,  and  letters,  as  the  bright  gleams 
that  were  to  irradiate  the  solitude  that  had  become  dis- 
tasteful to  her  in  prospect. 

Charles  Glentworth,  in  asking  the  consent  of  Mr.  Sher- 
man, had  explicitly  stated  his  circumstances  and  his 
prospects, — and  lamented  the  necessity  of  his  becoming 
established  in  practice,  before  he  could  claim  the  hand  of 
his  daughter.  And  Mr.  Sherman,  considering  the  united 
possession  of  talents,  industry,  and  integrity,  more  valua- 
ble than  wealth,  regarded  the  want  of  fortune,  as  no  ob- 
jection to  his  future  son-in-law.  Charles,  in  all  the  con- 
fidence of  youth  and  inexperience,  thought  that  poverty 
was  an  obstacle  soon  to  be  removed,  and  Sarah  gave 
ready  credence  to  his  sanguine  anticipations  of  speedy 
success  in  his  profession,  and  sympathized  in  his  aspir- 
ing dreams  of  future  eminence. 

When  Sarah  returned  to  her  home,  she  found  that  its 
pleasures  had  lost  the  power  to  satisfy  her  heart  as  they 
had  done.  When  she  resumed  her  studies,  she  longed 
for  the  assistance  which  her  dear  Charles  was  so  well 
qualified  to  give  her,  and  when  reading  her  favorite  poets, 
their  finest  imaginings  only  awakened  a  regret  that  she 
had  no  one  to  enjoy  them  with  her.  As  she  rambled 
along  her  accustomed  walks,  or  sat  in  her  bower,  the 
most  beautiful  prospects  lost  half  their  charms,  since 
she  had  no  companion  who  could  feel  their  beauties  with 
her.  Her  dreamy  musings,  and  frequent  fits  of  abstrac- 
tion made  her  sadly  forgetful,  and  her  observant  mother 


SARAH   SHERMAN.  187 

soon  found  occasion  to  remind  her  of  her  many  omissions 
in  household  duties.  "Why  Sarah,"  said  Mrs.  Sher- 
man, "  do  look  at  these  tables,  they  are  covered  with  dust, 
I  have  been  so  busy  that  I  have  not  had  time  to  look  at 
the  parlor  for  two  days.  The  room  looks  as  if  it  had 
not  been  dusted  for  a  week.  Your  visit  has  spoiled  you 
for  a  housekeeper.  This  will  never  do,  your  lover  must 
not  make  you  forget  your  duties.  This  is  but  a  poor  pre- 
paration for  married  life,  Sarah.  A  husband  will  think 
it  no  excuse  for  a  wife's  negligence,  if  she  should  tell 
him  that  she  thought  so  much  of  him  as  to  make  her  for- 
get every  thing  else.  Men  generally  estimate  a  woman's 
affection  by  her  attention  in  giving  him  a  well  ordered 
home.  If  you  think  of  becoming  a  wife,  you  must  bestir 
yourself  in  preparing  for  future  duties.  Idle  dreaming, 
an  absent  mind,  or  reading  poetry,  will  not  keep  the 
house  in  order." 

Sarah's  cheeks  were  suffused  with  blushes,  as  she  re- 
ceived this  well-meant  reproof  from  her  plain-spoken 
mother.  And  reflection  soon  convinced  her  of  its  truth 
and  justice,  however  unpalatable  it  seemed  to  her  at  first. 
She  acknowledged  to  herself  that  the  delightful  intellec- 
tual companionship,  she  fondly  dreamed  of  finding  as  the 
wife  of  Charles  Glentworth,  could  be  enjoyed  but  for  a 
brief  hour  or  two,  at  evening,  since  his  restricted  circum- 
stances would  call  for  constant  devotion  to  business  on  his 
part,  and  as  his  wife,  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to 
study  practical  economy,  and  the  art  of  housekeeping, 
instead  of  poetry  and  philosophy,  and  to  cultivate  daily 
habits  of  industry  and  activity,  instead  of  indulging  her 
fondness  for  science,  or  literature.  A  life  of  leisure, 
would  be  unsuited  to  either  of  them  in  their  united  strug- 
gles to  promote  their  material  interests.  Labor  must 
necessarily  be  their  constant  duty,  and  the  pleasures  of 
taste  and  intellect,  could  be  only  the  transient  recreation 


188  SARAH   SHERMAN. 

of  a  few  passing  moments  ;  with  Sarah,  to  be  convinced 
of  error,  was  to  take  immediate  steps  to  retrieve  it,  and 
she  again  resumed  her  daily  occupations  with  renewed 
vigor,  and  unremitting  attention.  Her  household  labors 
were  rendered  pleasant  and  delightful,  by  the  sweet  con- 
sciousness that  she  was  thus  fitting  herself  to  be  a  future 
help-meet  to  her  beloved  Charles. 

The  time  fixed  upon  by  Charles  Glentworth  for  his 
visit  at  length  arrived,  and  the  happy  lovers  were  again 
in  each  other's  society,  wandering  over  Sarah's  favorite 
haunts,  and  admiring  together  the  varied  beauties  that 
the  early  summer  had  thrown  over  hill  and  dale.  Many 
were  the  fair  pictures  of  domestic  bliss,  which  the  enthu- 
siastic Charles  drew  for  his  Sarah,  when  they  would 
share  one  home  together,  and  much  as  she  loved  the 
sweet  scenes  around  her,  yet  she  felt  that  even  a  city  life 
would  be  a  green  and  sunny  spot  to  her,  when  spent  with 
her  future  husband.  The  time  that  they  were  together 
fled  away  on  its  fleetest  wings,  and  again  Sarah  found 
herself  alone.  She  could  scarcely  realize  that  Charles 
had  been  with  her  ;  it  was  like  a  passing  dream,  bright 
and  transient  as  the  rose-tinted  clouds  of  morning. 

Slowly  and  wearily  did  the  months  pass  by  with 
Charles  Glentworth,  in  his  separation  from  his  beloved 
Sarah.  And  to  his  saddened  spirit,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
period  of  their  union  was  more  distant  than  when  he  first 
declared  himself  her  lover.  Ambitious  and  aspiring,  yet 
proudly  sensitive,  he  shrank  from  thrusting  himself  for- 
ward to  the  notice  of  his  fellow  men,  and  saw  .others  far 
less  gifted  and  competent,  pressing  onward,  and  leaving 
him  behind  in  the  struggle  for  fame  and  fortune.  At 
length  despondency  with  all  its  baleful  influences  settled 
darkly  over  him,  and  he  was  about  giving  up  in  utter 
despair  of  success, — when  he  was  roused  from  its  gloomy 
lethargy  by  a  visit  from  the  lawyer,  under  whom  he  had 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  189 

studied.  Mr.  Melmoth's,  practice  was  more  lucrative 
and  extensive  than  that  of  any  other  member  at  the  bar, 
and  his  health  had  become  so  undermined  by  his  devo- 
tion to  business,  that  he  found  it  necessary  to  procure  an 
assistant.  And  the  object  of  his  visit,  was  to  offer  this 
desirable  situation  to  Charles  Glentworth.  The  salary 
proposed  was  a  liberal  one,  and  the  opportunity  thus 
afforded  of  establishing  himself  in  future  practice,  pro- 
mised fair  for  success.  Charles  gratefully  accepted  the 
offer,  and  lost  no  time  in  communicating  his  good  fortune 
to  Sarah,  asking  her  to  share  it  with  him  by  an  early 
marriage. 

Though  Mr.  Sherman  was  not  a  wealthy  man,  yet  he 
had  a  sufficiency  to  spare  in  assisting  his  children.  He 
rented  a  comfortable  dwelling,  and  furnished  it  neatly 
throughout,  for  his  daughter;  and  the  happy  Charles 
soon  after  took  his  beloved  wife  to  her  wedded  home. 
As  Sarah  passed  through  her  house,  she  saw  that  every 
thing  had  been  provided  by  her  kind  father  and  mother, 
that  could  add  to  their  comfort,  and  in  the  little  room 
fitted  up  expressly  for  her  own  use,  she  felt  that  she  was 
indebted  to  her  dear  Charles  from  the  evidences  of  his 
taste  in  its  arrangement.  The  little  library  which  had 
been  given  her  by  her  father,  was  enriched  by  numerous 
additions,  and  placed  in  a  carved  oak  book-case,  with  its 
desk  lying  open,  on  which  lay  a  handsome  portfolio,  and 
standish.  On  the  opposite  side  there  was  a  neat  cabinet, 
with  several  divisions  appropriated  to  various  departments 
of  natural  history,  and  filled  with  their  respective  speci- 
mens of  minerals,  insects,  dried  plants,  &c.  Two  large 
maps  and  a  few  choice  pictures  hung  on  the  walls,  and 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  centre  table,  with  an 
Astral  lamp,  around  which,  lay  a  collection  of  engravings 
and  a  few  choice  volumes.  In  front  of  the  window,  there 
was  a  tastefully  designed  flower  stand,  filled  with  plants. 


190  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

which  formed  a  pyramid  of  mingled  verdure  and  bloom, 
and  diffused  a  delightful  fragrance  through  the  apart- 
ment. Sarah  looked  around  upon  her  husband's  gifts, 
while  tears  of  grateful  love  trembled  in  her  eyes,  and  still 
more  deeply  did  she  feel  these  evidences  of  his  affection 
as  he  joined  her,  and  said,  "  This  room,  my  dear  Sarah, 
is  sacred  to  you,  and  here  not  even  your  husband  will  in- 
trude upon  you,  except  when  you  desire  his  presence.  It 
is  my  wish  that  you  will  still  continue  the  studies  and 
pursue  the  tastes  which  have  so  richly  adorned  your 
mind.  I  would  not  have  my  wife  become  a  household 
slave,  and  when  your  domestic  duties  are  over,  you  can 
spend  your  leisure  hours  here  free  from  interruption,  and 
when  my  engagements  for  the  day  are  over,  I  will  join 
you,  and  we  can  read  and  study  together." 

A  flush  of  affection  and  gratitude,  passed  over  Sarah's 
beaming  face  as  she  turned  towards  her  husband,  and  said, 
"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish  dear  Charles,  I  will  strive  to 
be  active  and  industrious  in  fulfilling  my  duties  as  a 
housekeeper,  that  I  may  secure  some  leisure  for  mental 
improvement,  so  as  to  be  always  a  congenial  companion 
for  my  husband.  I  know  there  is  great  danger  of  a 
woman's  becoming  wholly  engrossed  in  the  routine  of 
household  occupations,  and  thereby  rendering  her  society 
uninteresting  to  a  man  of  intellect,  who  by  his  daily  in- 
tercourse with  men,  and  books,  is  continually  advancing 
in  his  mental  progress,  but  I  trust  my  dear  Charles,  that 
under  your  guidance,  I  will  be  all  that  you  wish." 

Their  prospects  of  happiness  dawned  brightly  upon  this 
newly  married  pair,  and  few  ever  entered  upon  wedded 
life  whose  morning  promised  so  unclouded  a  future. 
Charles  Glentworth,  though  ambitious  in  his  profession, 
was,  as  yet,  free  from  the  petty  aspirings  of  social  life, 
and  Sarah's  whole  sphere  of  happiness  was  centered  in 
her  home.  Their  income,  though  comparatively  moderate, 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  191 

was  more  than  sufficient  for  their  wants,  and  authorized 
an  indulgence  in  their  refined  and  intellectual  tastes.  It 
was  now,  since  Sarah  had  entered  upon  the  duties 
of  her  own  household,  that  she  felt  the  full  benefit  she 
had  received  from  her  mother's  careful  instruction  in  do- 
mestic employments.  Those  daily  recurring  labors,  so 
harassing  to  the  inexperienced  and  uninitiated,  were  light- 
ened to  her,  by  her  long  practice  under  her  mother's 
training,  and  she  was  enabled  to  go  through  them  with 
ease,  cheerfulness  and  dispatch,  and  to  find  as  much  leis- 
ure for  literary  pursuits  as  she  desired.  She  was  thus 
saved  from  those  harassing  disquietudes  and  vexatious 
trials  which  so  many  newly  married  women  experience, 
day  after  day,  in  their  endeavors  to  discharge  those  wea- 
risome labors  to  which  their  time  and  their  capacities 
seem  wholly  insufficient ;  and  many  of  whom  would 
then  gladly  exchange  those  useless  accomplishments 
which  their  girlhood  was  spent  in  acquiring,  for  that 
knowledge  of  domestic  affairs  so  painfully  learned,  when 
it  is  most  needed,  and  whose  practice  nothing  but  a  pre- 
vious preparation  can  fit  them  to  fulfill. 

When  Sarah  had  gone  through  her  household  duties, 
with  what  pleasure  did  she  hasten  to  her  pleasant  little 
room  and  enter  upon  her  studies,  and  how  were  these 
studies  sweetened  by  the  thought  that  it  was  with  her 
husband's  approval,  and  by  his  request,  that  she  indulged 
in  those  intellectual  enjoyments  which  had  been  the 
source  of  so  much  happiness  to  her  from  her  early  youth. 
Few  married  women  are  allowed  to  pursue  a  system  of 
mental  culture,  and  even  the  little  that  is  sometimes 
gained  by  reading,  is  momentarily  seized  on  like  a  for- 
bidden gratification,  for  few  men  ever  consider  it  a  duty 
to  promote  the  intellectual  advancement  of  their  wives. 
A  well  ordered  house,  a  good  dinner,  and  a  slavish  at- 
tention to  every  capricious  want,  are  by  many  rigorously 


192  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

exacted,  but  they  forget  that  the  woman  they  have  chosen 
is  not  a  hireling,  but  that  she  is  to  be  the  mother,  the 
guide  and  the  instructor  of  his  children,  and  that  it  is 
.  incumbent  on  them,  as  they  value  the  future  welfare  of 
their  offspring,  to  allow  her  leisure  to  fit  herself  for  these 
high  and  sacred  responsibilities,  and  to  encourage  and 
assist  her  in  a  continued  course  of  self-education.  Charles 
Glentworth  was  superior  to  that  petty  jealousy  and  pre- 
judice, which  some  men  still  feel  and  express  against 
learning  in  woman.  It  was  a  delight  to  him  to  draw  out 
the  resources  of  Sarah's  mind,  and  to  stimulate  her  to 
greater  acquisitions,  by  placing  every  facility  for  improve- 
ment within  her  reach.  The  enjoyment  he  experienced 
in  communing  with  his  wife,  by  the  free  interchange  of 
thought,  was  a  pleasant  relief  from  the  dry  details  of  legal 
study,  and  in  being  blessed  with  congenial  companion- 
ship in  her  cultivated  mind,  he  had  no  temptation  to  seek 
intellectual  excitement  abroad.  Happy  and  contented  in 
each  other's  society,  neither  seemed  to  have  a  wish  be- 
yond their  humble  home. 

Charles  Glentworth,  though  descended  from  a  family 
of  influence  and  respectability,  was  left  at  an  early  age 
an  orphan,  without  friends  or  fortune  to  aid  him  in  his 
struggles  to  obtain  an  education  suited  to  the  profession 
of  his  choice.  His  talents  and  energy  enabled  him  to 
overcome  every  obstacle,  and  the  high  estimation  in 
which  his  capacity  and  acquirements  were  held  by  his 
legal  preceptor,  induced  him  to  seek  out  Charles  Glent- 
worth as  a  competent  assistant  in  relieving  him  from  the 
pressure  of  business.  As  Charles  was  comparatively  a 
stranger  in  the  city  where  he  had  fixed  his  residence,  he 
had  but  few  associates  and  had  mingled  but  little  in  so- 
ciety. But  his  present  situation  in  the  employment  of 
Mr.  Melmoth,  brought  him  into  companionship  with  men 
of  the  highest  standing,  both  conventional  and  political. 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  193 

He  became  quite  a  favorite  among  Mr.  Melmoth's  inti- 
mate friends,  and  his  cultivated  mind,  refined  tastes  and 
polished  manners  brought  him  numerous  invitations  to  join 
their  literary  club,  and  to  become  a  guest  at  the  dinners 
and  suppers,  given  in  rotation  by  each  of  the  members  at 
their  own  dwellings.  At  first,  Charles  was  unwilling  to 
accept  them,  as  he  knew  that  their  style  of  living  was  so 
different  from  his  own,  and  felt  a  greater  preference  for 
his  home  pleasures  in  the  society  of  his  wife,  than  for 
any  anticipated  enjoyment  he  might  receive  from  the 
sparkling  wit  or  high  converse  of  his  new  associates. 
But  Mr.  Melmoth,  who  was  a  man  of  the  world  as  well 
as  a  man  of  business,  constantly  urged  him  to  accept 
these  invitations,  representing  to  him  the  advantage 
which  would  accrue  to  him  in  his  profession,  by  cultivat- 
ing a  more  extended  acquaintance  with  the  society  of 
men  of  wealth  and  influence.  When  Charles  at  length 
entered  upon  these  scenes  of  luxurious  refinement,  the 
contrast  between  their  splendid  mansions  and  his  own 
humble  dwelling  struck  him  painfully.  He  began  to  feel 
discontented  when  he  returned  to  his  plainly  furnished 
apartments,  and  thus  gave  access  to  that  spirit  of  desire 
for  things  forbidden  to  his  limited  circumstances,  which 
is  the  wily  serpent  that  has  entered  into  many  a  fair 
Eden-home,  banishing  peace  and  happiness  from  the 
bosom  of  its  inmates. 

The  affectionate  Sarah  quickly  perceived  the  change 
in  her  beloved  Charles,  and  her  knowledge  of  human 
nature  soon  enabled  her  to  divine  its  cause.  In  one  point 
she  was  far  superior  to  her  husband — she  was  a  decided 
Christian,  and  was  thus  guarded  by  grace  from  the  tempt- 
ation to  which  he  had  fallen  so  ready  a  victim.  His 
repinings  had  no  effect  in  destroying  her  calm  content- 
ment in  her  lot,  but  she  felt  deeply  for  the  unhappiness 
which  clouded  her  husband's  brow.  She  tried  to  instill 
17 


194  SAEAH    SHERMAN. 

into  his  mind  the  same  elevated  feelings  that  lifted  her 
above  the  disquietude  that  corroded  his  peace,  and  often 
and  fervently  did  she  pray  for  her  dear  Charles,  that  he 
too  might  become  a  partaker  of  those  blessings  which 
religion  had  shed  upon  her  own  heart. 

Mr.  Melmoth,  finding  that  his  failing  health  caused 
him  to  leave  so  much  of  his  business  to  the  care  of 
Charles,  proposed  taking  him  into  partnership  upon  the 
most  liberal  terms.  This  offer  was  eagerly  accepted,  as 
the  former  salary,  once  fully  sufficient,  had  been  regarded 
by  Charles  as  a  painfully  restricted  one,,  since  the  desire 
for  luxurious  indulgence  had  taken  possession  of  his 
heart.  The  extent  of  his  prospective  income  added  still 
stronger  incentives  to  the  spirit  of  competition  which  had 
given  him  so  much  unhappiness,  and  he  determined  to 
make  an  immediate  change,  by  removing  into  a  larger 
house  in  a  more  fashionable  neighborhood.  When  he 
communicated  what  he  esteemed  his  good  fortune  to  Sa- 
rah, he  said,  "  Now,  my  dear  wife,  you  can  no  longer 
object  to  our  living  in  a  different  style,  since  the  opportu- 
nity of  doing  so  is  secured  to  us."  "  Would  it  not  be 
better  my  husband,"  she  replied,  "  to  improve  this  oppor- 
tunity by  laying  up  something  for  the  future,  as  we  know 
not  how  long  this  income  may  be  ours,  as  Mr.  Melmoth's 
declining  health  induces  us  to  fear  that  he  may  not  be 
much  longer  spared  to  assist  us." 

"  In  case  of  that  event,  which  I  trust  may  be  far  distant, 
as  his  disease  though  painful  is  not  a  dangerous  one,  I 
may  succeed  to  his  practice,  which  is  extensive  enough 
to  support  any  style  of  living  to  which  we  can  aspire.  I 
have  already  gained  favor  and  respect  among  his  numer- 
ous clients,  and  to  secure  the  practice  it  is  desirable,  if 
not  actually  necessary,  that  I  should  maintain  the  appear- 
ance of  wealth." 

This  false  idea,  so  current  in  the  world,  of  the  neces- 


SARAH  SHERMAN.  195 

sity  of  keeping  up  appearances  in  order  to  procure  pro- 
fessional advancement,  how  much  misery  has  it  occa- 
sioned !  If  the  lives  of  our  professional  men  could  be 
written,  what  a  history  would  they  unfold  of  heart- wear- 
ing struggles  and  heart-breaking  trials  inflicted  upon 
themselves  by  following  this  fallacious  maxim.  How 
many  a  noble  spirit  has  been  crushed,  how  many  domes- 
tic hearths  have  been  turned  into  scenes  of  bitter  anguish 
and  distress  by  this  deluding,  this  wretched,  wretched 
course  of  self-deception  !  The  demoralizing  influence  of 
incurring  debts  which  cannot  be  discharged,  the  many 
petty  shifts  to  avoid  the  duns  of  importunate  creditors, 
the  hypocrisy  and  falsehood  necessary  to  be  daily  and 
hourly  practiced,  in  order  to  deceive  the  world  as  to 
their  real  situation,  added  to  the  obligation  of  wearing  a 
pleasing  smile  and  assuming  popular,  agreeable  manners, 
while  the  heart  is  torn  and  harrassed  by  constant  anxie- 
ty— who  would  voluntarily  bring  this  dreadful  train  of 
evils  upon  themselves,  if  they  knew  beforehand  all  they 
would  have  to  endure  !  This  deceptive  axiom,  the  man- 
date of  that  most  cruel  of  all  tyrannies, — the  petty  micro- 
cosm of  each  city,  town  or  neighborhood,  should  be  strenu- 
ously rebelled  against  by  all  who  value  their  own  integ- 
rity and  self-respect,  their  own  happiness  and  eventual 
prosperity. 

Charles  Glentworth  had  already  become  too  deeply  im- 
bued with  worldly  principles  to  give  heed  to  the  prudent 
suggestions  of  his  wife,  and  he  soon  after  took  a  large 
house  in  a  fashionable  part  of  the  city,  and  commenced  a 
style  of  living  better  suited  to  the  neighborhood  than  to  his 
circumstances.  Sarah  deeply  regretted  the  change,  but 
with  all  the  energy  of  her  character  she  determined  that 
her  husband  should  not  suffer  from  the  effects  of  his  impru- 
dence, if  they  could  be  averted  by  her  industry  and  man- 
agement. She  had  always  been  an  economist,  but  now 


196  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

she  made  it  her  constant  study  and  exertion  to  strive  to 
keep  their  increased  expenses  within  the  limits  of  their  in- 
come. To  avoid  the  necessity  of  keeping  as  many  servants 
as  the  house  required,  she  took  upon  herself  a  large  share 
of  its  labors,  and  to  prevent  every  thing  like  waste  or 
extravagance  in  the  kitchen,  required  the  most  constant 
and  harassing  supervision  over  her  fashionable  cook  and 
waiter.  This  was  a  painful  necessity  of  which  she  had 
felt  nothing  in  her  former  humble  dwelling,  for  the  hon- 
est country  servant  procured  for  her  by  her  mother  was 
always  as  careful  of  her  interests  as  if  they  were  her 
own.  This  unremitting  vigilance  and  oversight  left 
Sarah  now  no  leisure  hours  she  could  claim  as  her  own, 
and  she  was  forced  to  give  up  every  thing  like  systematic 
mental  culture.  Her  husband  wished  her  to  form  a  cir- 
cle of  acquaintance,  and  to  be  always  prepared  to  receive 
morning  visitors,  and  the  hours  she  was  obliged  to  sit  in 
the  drawing-room,  she  endeavored  to  improve  by  reading ; 
but  the  frequent  interruption  from  the  calls  of  her  new 
associates  obliged  her  to  lay  down  her  book  so  often,  as 
to  lose  all  interest  in  its  contents.  Sarah  found  but  little 
congeniality  in  her  fashionable  neighbors,  and  as  she 
listened  with  forced  attention  to  the  unmeaning  gossip  of 
idle  visitors,  she  often  sighed  over  the  hours  she  once 
enjoyed  in  communing  with  the  recorded  thoughts  of 
gifted  intellects  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  little  room. 
And  as  she  sat  in  her' richly  furnished  apartment,  she  of- 
ten reverted  with  regret  to  the  humble  home  where  she 
spent  the  first  year  of  her  married  life. 

Another  source  of  sorrow  to  Sarah's  heart,  was  that 
the  visits  of  her  kind  parants  were  not  as  frequent  as 
they  once  were.  Her  father  had  candidly  expressed  his 
fears  to  Charles  that  his  income  was  not  sufficient  to 
warrant  the  expenses  he  had  incurred  by  his  change  of 
living,  and  the  coldness  with  which  this  prudent  sugges- 


SARAH   SHERMAN.  197 

tion  was  received,  convinced  Mr.  Sherman  that  he  had  un- 
intentionally offended  him.  He  saw  that  he  was  not  fitted 
for  the  companionship  of  his  son-in-law's  present  associ- 
ates, and  imagined  he  was  less  warmly  welcomed  by  him. 
than  upon  his  visits  to  their  former  dwelling.  Sarah 
often  wrote  to  them,  and  expressed  her  regret  that  they 
came  so  seldom  to  see  her,  but  her  father  wrote  in  an- 
swer, half  in  jest,  but  sadly  in  earnest,  that  "  we  plain 
country  folks  are  not  suited  for  the  society  in  which  you 
now  move,  but  are  better  in  our  own  place  at  home." 

As  Charles  now  maintained  an  appearance  of  wealth, 
which  placed  him  on  an  apparent  equality  with  those 
whom  he  associated,  he  returned  the  courtesies  which 
had  been  shown  to  him,  and  his  dinners  and  suppers 
were  an  additional  outlay  which  caused  the  prudent  Sa- 
rah much  anxiety.  In  order  to  prevent  every  needless 
expense,  she  prepared  most  of  the  dishes  herself,  and  as 
she  went  through  her  fatiguing  toil,  the  reflection  upon 
the  sinful  waste  of  time  and  money  that  these  entertain- 
ments required,  often  came  over  her,  but  the  recollection 
that  she  was  endeavoring  to  please  her  husband  lightened 
every  exertion  however  painfully  borne. 

The  grace  and  dignified  ease  with  which  Sarah  pre- 
sided at  her  husband's  table  gained  her  the  respect  and 
admiration  of  his  aristocratic  guests,  and  little  did  they 
think,  in  their  prejudiced  exclusiveness,  that  the  intellec- 
tual and  refined  Mrs.  Glentworth  was  the  daughter  of  a 
plain  mechanic.  So  true  it  is,  that  mental  cultivation 
and  refinement  of  mind  will  more  certainly  produce  a 
genuine  refinement  of  manners,  than  the  external  polish 
of  conventional  forms — for  the  one  is  inherent  and  the 
other  is  assumed. 

The  numerous  extravagances,  in  which  the  insane  am- 
bition of  Charles  involved  him,  soon  made  themselves 
painfully  felt.  And  Sarah  found  that  the  strictest  econo- 
17* 


198  SARAH   SHERMAN. 

my  that  she  could  maintain  in  her  household  manage- 
ment, had  failed  in  saving  her  husband  from  various 
debts,  whose  liquidation  he  was  forced  to  defer  from 
time  to  time.  Charles  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  his 
error  in  having  thus  voluntarily  plunged  himself  into  in- 
extricable difficulties.  He  became  gloomy,  misanthropic 
and  irritable,  and  the  hours  they  once  so  happily  spent 
in  each  other's  society,  were  now  passed  in  cold  abstrac- 
tion and  reserve.  They  still  tenderly  loved,  but  there 
was  no  pleasant  interchange  of  thought  and  feeling,  for 
the  sense  of  their  situation  pressed  heavily  on  their 
hearts  and  banished  domestic  enjoyment  from  their 
hearth. 

A  stranger,  of  political  distinction,  having  arrived  in  the 
city,  Charles  thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to  give  an 
entertainment  to  him,  having  met  him  at  several  dinners 
given  by  his  legal  friends.  Sarah  remonstrated  with  her 
husband  on  the  imaginary  necessity,  but  finding  him 
determined,  she  said  no  more,  but  used  every  exertion  to 
make  the  preparations  with  as  little  expense  as  possible, 
though  she  was  obliged  to  keep  up  the  appearance  of 
style  and  liberal  expenditure,  well  knowing  that  Charles 
would  never  forgive  any  thing  that  looked  like  parsimony. 

During  the  course  of  the  entertainment,  the  gentleman 
gave  an  account  of  a  visit  paid  the  day  before  to  one  of 
his  college  friends.  "  I  was  delighted,"  said  he,  "  with 
the  good  sense  displayed  by  my  friend  and  his  wife,  in 
living  according  to  their  means.  The  present  mania  of 
keeping  up  appearances  without  a  sufficient  income  to 
maintain  them,  has  so  deeply  infected  every  class,  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest,  that  there  is  no  greater  evidence 
of  wisdom,  intellectual  superiority  and  true  gentility,  than 
to  see  a  man  sufficiently  independent  to  live  according  to 
his  own  notions  of  what  he  can  afford.  When  my  friend 
came  to  me,  he  said,  '  my  wife  and  I  will  be  much  grati- 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  199 

fied  by  your  coming  to  take  a  family  dinner  with  us. 
We  cannot  entertain  you  as  you  have  lately  been  accus- 
tomed, but  you  will  have  our  heart's  welcome,  and  the 
best  of  our  plain  fare.  We  are  poor  with  respect  to  this 
world's  wealth,  but  rich  in  all  that  makes  life  desirable — 
domestic  bliss,  a  moderate  competency,  and  contentment 
with  our  lot.' 

"  When  I  entered  my  friend's  neat  dwelling,  I  was 
presented  to  his  lovely  wife,  who  was  attired  with  a  taste- 
ful simplicity  so  far  preferable  to  the  gorgeous  apparel  of 
fashion.  She  received  me  with  that  graceful  ease  which 
marks  the  well-bred  woman,  and  soon  after,  upon  her 
husband's  request,  brought  in  her  beautiful  children  from 
the  next  room — one,  a  noble,  intelligent  looking  boy  of 
four  years  of  age,  and  the  other,  a  smiling  babe,  who  threw 
out  its  little  arms  to  its  father,  and  laughed  with  delight 
as  he  clasped  it  in  his  arms.  It  was  a  sweet  picture  of 
hearth-side  enjoyment,  and  bachelor  as  I  was,  I  envied 
him  the  possession  of  such  treasures.  During  the  time  I 
staid  with  them  my  friend's  wife  was  often  obliged  to 
leave  us  to  attend  to  her  infant,  and  her  husband  said, 
'  My  Mary  is  her  children's  nurse  and  attendant,  she  has 
them  constantly  under  her  own  eye,  for  she  often  says 
that  no  one  can  bear  with  their  little  irritations  with  a 
mother's  patience,  or  guide  them  as  tenderly  as  a  mother 
can  do.'  'Oh,  my  friend,'  continued  he,  'she  is  a  min- 
istering angel  to  her  husband  and  children,  and  although 
she  was  reared  in  all  the  luxurious  indulgences  of  opu- 
lence, and  has  relations  and  acquaintance  among  the 
wealthiest  families  in  the  city,  yet  she  is  as  happy  and 
contented  in  sharing  my  humble  home,  as  if  she  had  all 
the  elegancies  that  fortune  could  lavish  on  her.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  an  old  friend  of  my  mother,  and  I  first 
became  acquainted  with  her  in  her  days  of  prosperity, 
before  her  father  had  become  reduced  in  his  circumstan- 


200  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

ces,  but  even  then  she  had  already  agreed  to  share  my 
early  struggles  in  advancing  myself  in  my  profession. 
If  you  could  only  see  with  what  willingness  she  goes 
through  the  labors  that  our  poverty  renders  it  necessary 
she  should  perform,  and  the  cheerfulness  with  which  she 
bears  every  privation,  you  would  be  able  to  appreciate  all 
that  she  is  to  me.'  It  was  with  regret  and  the  highest 
respect  that  I  left  this  happy  pair,  and  were  the  society 
of  our  cities  composed  of  more  members  like  my  estima- 
ble friend  and  his  wife,  we  should  present  to  carping  for- 
eign tourists  a  model  of  republican  simplicity  which  they 
would  be  forced  to  admire  and  extol.  But  unfortunately 
such  models  are  rare,  and  they  find  sufficient  food  for 
satire  in  our  apish  imitations  of  European  style,  to  which 
the  generality  of  American  fortunes  is  wholy  unequal." 

This  gentleman  knew  nothing  of  the  circumstances  of 
Charles  Glentworth,  or  he  would  not  have  thus  spoken, 
but  the  words  that  he  uttered  were  barbed  arrows  to  Sa- 
rah's heart,  and  she  felt  their  truth  to  its  inmost  depths. 
How  gladly  would  she  have  exchanged  her  own  luxurious 
home  for  the  happy  and  humble  one  he  had  just  des- 
cribed ! 

Poor  Charles  was  soon  doomed  to  feel  the  error  of  his 
fatal  ambition  for  display  to  its  fullest  extent.  Mr.  Mel- 
moth  died  two  years  after  he  had  taken  him  into  partner- 
ship, and  Charles  found  himself  again  dependent  upon 
the  precarious  support  of  uncertain  practice,  overwhelmed 
with  accumulated  debts  which  he  now  saw  no  prospect 
of  discharging.  How  wildly  did  he  reproach  himself  for 
all  his  sufferings,  and  vainly  turn  from  side  to  side  in  the 
hope  of  bettering  his  situation. 

Sarah's  suggestion  of  immediate  retrenchment  was  at 
first  resolutely  refused,  but  at  length  he  was  obliged  to 
give  up  his  fashionable  house  and  furniture,  and  return 
to  his  former  plainer  style  of  living.  But  his  mind  could 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  201 

not  return  to  its  former  contentment,  for  the  spoiler's  hand 
had  been  there,  and  the  dove  of  peace  would  not  come 
back  to  its  rifled  nest. 

A  few  months  after  they  had  removed  to  their  new 
dwelling,  Sarah  gave  birth  to  her  first-born  babe,  a  lovely 
boy.  This  was  a  source  of  happiness,  of  which  not  even 
adversity  could  deprive  her,  and  she  hoped  that  its  smiles 
and  endearments  would  win  back  tranquillity  to  her  hus- 
band's care-worn  bosom.  Charles  fondly  loved  his  dear 
boy,  but  its  infantile  charms  had  not  the  same  power  in 
soothing  and  cheering  his  heart.  The  debts  that  still 
remained  unpaid,  even  after  he  had  disposed  of  his  luxu- 
rious establishment  for  the  purpose  of  discharging  them, 
hung  over  him  like  an  incubus  and  paralyzed  his  ener- 
gies. Sarah  tried  in  every  way  to  animate  his  hopes, 
and  to  stimulate  him  to  renewed  exertion  in  his  profession, 
for  his  sanguine  expectation  of  succeeding  to  his  partner's 
business,  in  the  event  of  his  death,  had  been  blighted,  by 
finding  that  his  wealthiest  clients  had  sought  legal  advis- 
ers of  more  eminent  reputation.  But  there  was  yet  a 
prospect  of  securing  a  competency  from  the  humbler  ones 
that  still  had  recourse  to  him,  and  Sarah's  mind  was  fer- 
tile in  suggesting  expedients  whereby  this  could  be  ren- 
dered sufficient  to  cancel  the  sums  still  owing.  "  It  will 
now  cost  us  but  little  in  our  household  expenses,"  she 
would  say,  "  and  if  we  are  only  saving  and  prudent,  my 
husband,  in  a  year  or  two  you  will  be  freed  from  all 
pecuniary  embarrassment."  Charles  deeply  felt  the  ten- 
derness and  delicacy  of  that  affection,  which  carefully 
avoided  every  thing  like  reproach  for  having  brought 
these  trials  on  himself,  and  his  Sarah  became  ten-fold 
dearer  than  she  ever  was.  But  yet  he  could  not  patiently 
wait  for  the  slow  accumulation  of  the  funds  he  needed, 
by  a  tedious  protracted  economy,  and  he  therefore  en- 
deavored to  gain  some  situation  which  would  bring  a 
more  speedy  relief  from  his  difficulties. 


202  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

Charles  returned  home  one  day  in  so  much  better 
spirits,  that  Sarah  immediately  perceived  the  change  in 
his  countenance.  "  I  have  had  a  new  client  this  morning, 
my  wife,"  said  he,  "  who  has  employed  me  in  a  case, 
which,  if  I  gain  it,  will  enable  me  to  be  once  more  freed 
from  debts  or  duns."  Sarah  was  much  pleased  by  this 
intelligence,  and  warmly  seconded  her  husband's  hopes 
of  success. 

After  some  delay,  the  case  was  finally  decided  in  favor 
of  his  client,  and  the  portion  which  reverted  to  Charles 
was  soon  transferred  to  those  whose  claims  upon  him  had 
been  left  unsettled.  This  event  was  deeply  gratifying  to 
Sarah,  as  she  hoped  that  Charles  would  relinquish  his 
applications  for  official  preferment,  and  look  to  his  prac- 
tice alone  for  support.  "  Now  my  husband,"  said  she, 
*'  we  can  again  be  happy.  I  know  that  your  business 
will  be  sufficient  to  meet  our  limited  expenses,  and  what 
more  can  we  want  ?" 

"  This  expectation  would  have  satisfied  me  once,  Sa- 
rah," he  replied,  "  and  would  still  do  so,  if  I  only  pos- 
sessed your  contented  mind,  but  I  have  not  yet  lost  my 
desire  to  maintain  a  higher  position  in  society  than  our 
present  circumstances  will  admit,  though  I  will  never 
again  be  guilty  of  the  folly  of  living  beyond  our  means. 
No  !  I  have  suffered  too  much  to  fall  a  second  time  into 
so  ruinous  a  course.  I  wish  to  better  my  situation  for 
your  sake,  as  much  as  my  own.  You  know  not,  my 
wife,  how  much  pride  I  felt  in  you,  when  I  saw  you  fill- 
ing with  so  much  grace  and  dignity  a  station  you  are  so 
well  fitted  to  adorn,  and  when  I  think  of  the  respect  and 
admiration  you  elicited  from  the  most  aristocratic  of  our 
visitors,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  buried  in  obscurity,  and 
toiling  on  from  day  to  day,  amidst  the  privations  of  pov- 
erty." 

"  If  you  only  knew,  my  dear  Charles,"  replied  Sarah, 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  203 

"  how  much  happier  I  feel  in  our  present  retired  life,  you 
would  not  wish  to  draw  me  from  it.  The  society  of  my 
husband  and  child  is  sufficient  for  me,  and  how  inade- 
quate are  the  unmeaning  compliments  and  insincere 
admiration  of  the  crowd  to  satisfy  the  heart,  when  I  am 
thus  richly  blest  by  your  tender  affection,  and  the  clinging 
fondness  of  my  lovely  boy." 

A  week  or  two  after  this  conversation,  Charles  told 
Sarah  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  visit  Washington,  and 
urged  her  to  spend  the  period  of  his  absence  with  her 
parents.  She  gladly  acceded  to  his  wishes,  as  she  had 
not  spent  any  time  with  them  since  her  marriage,  being 
always  unwilling  to  leave  her  husband  to  a  lonely  fireside 
and  solitary  meals.  Charles  procured  a  carriage  to  con- 
vey her  to  the  country,  and  soon  after  he  left  her,  she 
started  on  her  journey  with  her  precious  charge,  and  in  a 
few  hours  had  the  happiness  of  being  welcomed  by  her 
dear  father  and  mother  to  her  youthful  home.  The  little 
babe  became  the  idol  of  its  doating  grandfather,  and  all 
his  leisure  hours  were  spent  in  dandling  it  on  his  knee, 
or  taking  it  abroad  to  inhale  the  pure  country  air,  under 
the  shade  of  the  embowering  trees.  The  quiet  and  se- 
clusion of  this  sweetly  rural  spot  were  like  a  balm  to 
Sarah's  heart,  and  she  felt  that  if  Charles  were  only  with 
her  she  would  be  perfectly  happy.  As  she  rambled  once 
more  over  her  favorite  haunts,  how  like  a  fevered  dream 
did  her  past  trials  appear.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
could  scarcely  realize  all  she  had  endured  and  suffered, 
under  the  pecuniary  embarrassments  and  the  consequent 
misery  inflicted  on  her  husband.  It  was  a  consoling 
thought  that  this  source  of  unhappiness  had  been  removed, 
and  she  felt  that  if  her  husband  could  again  be  contented 
to  live  as  they  had  done  in  their  first  wedded  home,  the 
peace  they  had  then  enjoyed  might  yet  return  to  cheer 
their  hearts,  and  the  simple  intellectual  pleasures  they 


204  SARAH    SHERMAN. 

shared  in  reading  the  same  books  and  pursuing  the  same 
studies  together  in  her  own  little  room,  would  once  more 
be  sufficient  to  constitute  his  happiness. 

The  letters  Sarah  received  from  Charles  were  written 
in  so  cheerful  a  strain,  that  she  hoped  he  was  again  him- 
self, and  fondly  anticipated  his  coming  with  all  the  anx- 
ious affection  of  a  devoted  wife,  upon  her  first  separation 
from  a  beloved  husband.  At  length  the  day  come  round 
which  he  had  fixed  upon  for  his  return,  when  he  intended 
to  proceed  directly  to  her  father's  residence.  Sarah,  with 
all  the  restlessness  of  expectation,  could  not  settle  herself 
to  any  employment,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  she  took 
her  little  Charles  in  her  arms  and  walked  towards  the 
road,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  him  sooner.  She  heard  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels,  and  a  few  moments  after- 
wards the  babe  and  its  mother  were  clasped  to  the  happy 
husband's  heart.  "  I  have  been  successful  in  the  object 
of  my  mission,  my  wife,  and  have  been  appointed  to  a 
situation  in  an  embassy  to  the  court  of  St.  James.  And 
we  must  now  make  immediate  preparations  for  our  de- 
parture." Sarah's  heart  sank  within  her  at  this  sudden 
and  unexpected  announcement,  and  she  felt  that  she  was 
about  to  part  from  her  parents  and  home  perhaps  forever ; 
but  the  joy  that  irradiated  her  husband's  countenance  was 
soon  reflected  upon  her  heart,  and  she  felt  ready  and 
willing  to  say  to  him,  "wheresoever  thou  goest  I  will  go." 

Though  Mr.  Sherman's  pride  was  naturally  gratified 
by  his  son-in-law's  preferment,  yet  he  painfully  regretted 
the  separation  from  his  beloved  Sarah,  and  her  darling 
child.  But  he  looked  cheerfully  forward  to  the  time 
when  he  should  again  welcome  them  to  their  native  land, 
and  his  own  fire-side.  Mrs.  Sherman,  having  no  pride 
in  her  daughter's  elevation  to  buoy  her  up,  felt  loth  to 
submit  to  so  long  an  absence  from  her,  but  with  her  accus- 
tomed activity,  and  kind  heartedness,  she  assisted  Sarah 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  205 

in  making  the  necessary  preparations,  and  insisted  on 
adding  to  her  sea-stores,  every  little  nicety  that  she 
thought  would  be  acceptable  during  their  voyage. 

A  month  or  two  after  Charles  Glentworth  and  his 
wife  had  bid  farewell  to  their  home  and  their  friends, 
they  became  residents  of  a  foreign  land.  The  society  to 
which  they  gained  access  gratified  the  highest  wish  of 
the  aspiring  Charles,  for,  although  he  was  too  much  of  a 
republican  to  seek  associates  among  England's  proud  no- 
bility for  the  sake  of  their  titles,  or  the  mere  splendor 
that  surrounded  them, — yet  he  found  an  atmosphere  of 
taste  and  refinement,  which  was  congenial  to  his  fasti- 
dious predilections.  Less  spiritual  than  his  intellect- 
ual wife,  he  could  not  conceive  it  possible  to  enjoy  the 
highest  pleasures  of  mind  and  taste,  amidst  the  coarse 
and  homely  accompaniments  of  poverty.  But  with 
Sarah,  it  was  different ;  for  no  outward  circumstances 
however  adverse,  in  relation  merely  to  material  life,  had 
power  to  circumscribe  the  lofty  range  of  her  thoughts,  or 
to  impede  the  indulgence  of  her  refined  tastes.  She  was 
naturally  domestic,  preferring  a  quiet  seclusion  at  home, 
to  the  greatest  attractions  that  the  world  could  offer,  but 
to  please  her  husband  she  accepted  many  of  the  invita- 
tions given  them.  The  dignity  and  self-possession  re- 
sulting from  ner  native  independence  of  character,  gave 
such  ease  and  grace  to  her  manners  that  she  appeared  to 
advantage  in  every  circle  in  which  ,«he  moved.  Being 
superior  to  that  silly  rivalry  which  endeavors  to  compete 
with  the  wealthy  and  aristocratic  in  outward  adornment, 
she  maintained  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  a  republi- 
can simplicity  in  her  attire  and  deportment,  and  thereby 
gained  the  respect,  and  admiration  of  all  with  whom  she 
associated.  And  the  refined,  intellectual  Mrs.  Glent- 
worth was  frequently  spoken  of,  as  a  beautiful  model  of 
what  all  American  women  should  be. 
18 


206  SARAH   SHERMAN. 

Several  years  ago,  I  paid  a  transient  visit  to  Wash- 
ington, on  my  way  to  visit  my  Dear  Charles  Norville, 
who  had  lately  taken  possession  of  Oakwood.  While 
criticising  with  my  usual  freedom,  the  manners  and  style 
of  living  I  had  noticed  in  several  families  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, as  partaking  too  much  of  an  apish  imitation  of 
foreign  customs  and  habits,  the  friend  with  whom  I  was 
staying,  replied,  "  There  is  one  lady  here,  whom  I  know 
would  satisfy  even  your  carping  and  fastidious  taste, — 
for  indeed,  Ellen,"  continued  she,  smiling,  "  you  have 
lived  so  long  among  sensible  people,  that  you  do  not 
make  sufficient  allowance  for  the  follies  of  the  fashiona- 
ble world.  The  lady  to  whom  I  alluded,  has  lately  re- 
turned from  Europe  with  her  husband,  where  they  have 
spent  several  years,  and  I  never  saw  any  one  so  little  in- 
jured by  contact  with  foreign  usages.  Simple  and  un- 
pretending in  her  manners,  and  style  of  living,  she  evin- 
ces the  possession  of  that  intellectual  superiority  which 
alone  can  pass  through  the  ordeal  of  European  society, 
without  any  detriment  to  republican  simplicity.  She  has 
invited  a  few  friends  to  meet  her  this  evening,  and  I  in- 
sist on  your  accompanying  me,  when  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  her  acquaintance."  I  was 
glad  of  the  opportunity  of  seeing  this  "  rara  avis,"  and 
when  I  entered  the  tasteful  and  simply  furnished  draw- 
ing-room, and  was  presented  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  I 
had  the  unexpected  pleasure  of  recognizing  my  former 
schoolmate,  Sarah  Sherman.  She  clasped  my  hand 
with  a  heart-felt  welcome,  and  we  had  a  long,  and  inter- 
esting conversation  about  Mrs.  Norville,  and  in  answer- 
ing her  inquiries  respecting  the  subsequent  histories  of 
her  pupils.  After  I  left  her  side  to  speak  with  some  of 
my  old  friends,  whom  I  met  there,  I  could  not  help  notic- 
ing with  admiration,  the  dignified  ease  with  which  she 
entertained  some  of  the  highest  in  our  land,  both  as  re- 


SARAH    SHERMAN.  207 

spects  talents,  and  station.  And  this  graceful,  elegant 
woman,  said  I  to  myself,  is  the  same  Sarah  Sherman, 
whom  so  many  of  our  schoolmates  were  disposed  to  con- 
sider beneath  them,  because  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
mechanic.  What  a  commentary  is  this,  or  the  absurdity 
and  folly  of  those  artificial  distinctions,  which  fashiona- 
ble exclusiveness  so  vainly  attempts  to  maintain.  Men- 
tal cultivation  and  genuine  refinement  should  be  regarded 
as  the  only  unquestionable  passports  to  good  society,  and 
whether  admitted,  or  not,  they  bear  the  stamp  of  author- 
ity from  our  own  glorious  institutions,  and  sooner,  or  later, 
will  triumphantly  overcome  every  obstacle  attempted  to 
be  raised  by  the  petty  police  tyrannies  of  every  self-con- 
stituted coterie  of  fashion's  arbiters,  and  gain  an  undis- 
puted ingress  to  any  circle,  however  high  these  may  en- 
deavor to  elevate  it.  While  observing  the  respectful  ad- 
miration with  which  Sarah  was  regarded  by  the  most 
distinguished  of  her  guests,  I  could  not  help  wishing  that 
some  of  the  quondam  pupils  of  Oakwood  who  had  scorn- 
ed to  associate  with  Sarah  Sherman,  were  now  present, 
as  I  well  knew  that  they  would  have  considered  them- 
selves highly  honored  by  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Charles 
Glentworth,  and  by  finding  themselves  admitted  to  the 
refined  society  which  she  drew  around  her.  Examples 
such  as  this,  are  of  so  frequent  occurrence  in  our  land  of 
liberty  and  equal  rights,  that  one  cannot  help  wondering 
at  that  fatuity  still  so  rife  among  us,  which  strives  to 
counteract  the  tendencies  of  our  government,  by  endeav- 
oring to  engraft  upon  American  society  those  distinctions 
and  castes  which  belong  exclusively  to  the  feudal  usages 
of  Europe, — while  it  is  evident  that  even  there  the  time- 
worn  barriers  are  every  day  becoming  weaker  and  weaker, 
before  the  rising  strength  of  the  '  eternal  people,'  whose 
mental  and  moral  elevation  are  raising  them  to  an  equal- 
ity with  those  who  claim  to  be  their  superiors. 


208 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

My  task  is  done.     The  last  familiar  face, 
Of  those  long  kept  on  mem'ry's  tablet  traced, 
Stands  finished  on  the  easel.     As  I  gaze, 
On  each  fair  portrait  that  around  me  hangs, 
Past  hours  return,  and  every  scene  of  life, 
Is  acted  o'er  again. — ANON. 

HAVING  thus  brought  to  a  close  my  little  sketches  of 
those  schoolmates  whose  histories  have  left  the  strongest 
impression  on  my  memory,  it  may  perhaps  be  expected 
that  I  should  give  a  few  touches  of  my  own  course  of 
life.  Like  most  other  elderly  maiden  ladies,  I  have  some 
"  confessions"  to  make,  should  I  choose  to  do  so,  of  the 
many  suitors,  who  from  time  to  time,  sought  to  woo  me 
from  a  state  of  single  blessedness.  But  on  this  tender 
and  delicate  subject  it  will  suffice  to  say,  that  I  never  met 
among  them  "  a  man  after  my  own  heart."  And  as  the 
cognomen  of  an  "  old  maid,"  was  never  enough  of  a 
scare-crow,  to  induce  me  to  marry  one  who  did  not  come 
up  to  my  beau-ideal,  I  chose  to  remain  as  I  was,  know- 
ing that  it  is  character  and  not  situation  which  procures 
the  respect  of  all  those  whose  respect  is  worth  possessing. 
I  have  always  had  a  touch  of  romance  about  me,  amount- 
ing to  what  some  might  call  an  ultra-sentimentalism. 
My  ideas  of  love  and  constancy  were  drawn;  more  from 
the  pages  of  the  poet,  than  from  real  life,  and  were  con- 
sequently rather  Utopian.  I  have  always  thought  that 
if  I  loved,  or  was  beloved,  it  must  be  with  an  affection  be- 
longing rather  to  immortality  than  time,  and  although  I 
am  willing  to  admit  with  Allan  Ramsay's  gentle  heroine, 


CONCLUSION.  209 

There's  some  men  constanter  in  love  than  we, 
Nor  is  the  ferly  great,  when  nature  kind, 
Has  blest  them  with  solidity  of  mind. 

Yet  such  instances  I  ever  considered  as  belonging  to 
rare  exceptions,  rather  than  to  the  general  rule.  And  in 
despite  of  some  examples  to  the  contrary,  my  mind  be-' 
came  possessed  with  a  settled  conviction,  owing  perhaps, 
to  my  verging  towards  the  condition  of  '  old-maidism,' 
that  men  as  a  race,  are  very  fickle  and  capricious,  and 
that  their  hearts  are  not  worth  the  trouble  of  win- 
ning. But  this  opinion  was  sometimes  painfully  strength- 
ened by  events  that  have  come  within  the  sphere  of  my 
own  observation.  I  have  known  lovely,  interesting 
women,  whose  whole  lives  were  spent  in  self-sacrificing 
devotion  to  their  husband's  welfare  and  happiness,  and  I 
have  stood  beside  them  in  their  dying  hours,  when  the 
last  whispered  prayer  that  died  away  unfinished  on  their 
lips,  was  for  their  husbands,  that  they  might  be  supported 
under  the  approaching  bereavement,  and  when  the  last 
earnest  gaze  was  fixed  on  their  beloved  partners,  in  sad- 
dened tenderness,  as  if  the  thought  of  leaving  them  made 
it  a  hard  thing  to  die ;  and  yet  in  a  few  months  after- 
wards, I  have  seen  each  of  these  husbands  gayly  conduct- 
ing a  new  wife  to  his  home,  as  if  his  departed  one  had 
been  nothing  more  than  a  worn  out  article  of  furniture, 
which  could  be  as  easily  replaced.  When  I  have  mused 
on  such  things  as  these,  I  confess  I  have  often  indig- 
nantly exclaimed,  "  if  this  be  man's  love !  I'll  have  none 
of  it."  I  suppose,  however,  that  many  young  ladies  of 
the  present  day,  will  say  that  such  notions  as  these  prove 
that  "I  waP&orn  to  be  an  old-maid."  It  is  very  likely 
that  it  may  be  so,  and  the  strange  light  in  which  I  viewed 
such  common,  every-day  occurrences  may  have  been  ow- 
ing to  my  one-sided  position,  and  to  my  romantic  ideas 
about  the  spirituality  of  love,  which  are  now  wholly  obso- 
18* 


210  CONCLUSION. 

lete  among  those  fashionable  females  who  regard  matri- 
mony only  as  a  pecuniary  speculation.  They  have 
learned  to  take  quite  a  rational  view  of  those  things  that 
used  to  trouble  me  in  my  younger  days,  and  say  "  it  is  very 
natural  that  a  man  should  marry  again  as  soon  as  he 
can,"  and  if  the  rich  widower  happens  to  have  recently 
been  the  husband  of  their  dearest  associate,  he  is  consid- 
ered as  a  fair  chance  for  a  matrimonial  prize,  particularly 
as  they  profess  to  believe  that  a  speedy  second  marriage 
is  the  highest  compliment  that  he  can  pay  to  their  de- 
ceased friend.  Young,  giddy  girls  will  doubtless  con- 
sider it  a  fair  subject  for  merriment  to  hear  an  old-maid's 
opinions  about  love  and  matrimony,  but  old  as  I  am,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  shocked,  when  I  see  a  youthful  crea- 
ture gayly  sacrificing  herself  to  gray  hairs  and  decrepi- 
tude for  the  sake  of  wealth,  and  when  I  find  that  to  marry 
a  man  without  loving  him  is  now  considered  so  reasona- 
ble a  doctrine  both  by  mothers  and  daughters,  that  they 
unanimously  join  in  defending  and  upholding  it — by  pre- 
cept and  practice. 

Though  my  frame  is  old  and  decaying,  yet  my  heart 
is  yet  young  in  its  sympathies,  and  I  can  take  as  deep  an 
interest  in  the  "  true  love,"  of  my  young  friends  as  I  ever 
did,  and  still  do  all  that  I  can  to  make  it  "run  smooth." 
There  is  to  me  no  sweeter  picture  in  the  world  than  a 
happy  domestic  hearth  with  its  devoted  father,  its  fond, 
thoughtful  mother,  and  the  little  clustering  band  of  lovely, 
affectionate  children.  It  warms  and  stirs  my  heart  to 
look  on  it,  and  I  repulse  with  indignation  the  falsehood 
that  belies  my  sisterhood,  when  it  is  said  w«^ore  cold  and 
heartless.  A  true  woman's  heart  never  grows  cold,  and 
even  the  most  isolated  of  my  sex  will  ever  find  some  ob- 
ject, upon  which  her  affections  will  expend  themselves. 
And  here  perhaps  it  may  not  be  deemed  an  unpardona- 
ble digression,  if  I  offer  a  few  remarks  on  the  injustice 


CONCLUSION.  211 

with  which  old-maids  are  treated  by  an  ill-judging  world. 
Among  my  youthful  companions  I  was  accustomed  to 
hear  them  ridiculed  and  made  a  jest  and  by-word  by  silly 
young   men,   and   tittering    girls.      An    old-maid    was 
always  associated  with  ill-nature,  scandal,  hatred  of  chil- 
dren and  a  pet  cat,  but  how  rarely  do  we  find  the  original 
of  this  fancy's  sketch.     Let  every  one  look  round  upon 
the  elderly  unmarried  females  of  their  acquaintance  and 
judge  of  the  falsehood  of  this  picture.     Who  are  the  kind 
friends  who  come  forward  to  our  assistance  in  the  hours 
of  sickness  or  sorrow — are  they  not  found  among  this  cen- 
sured class  ?     Which  is  the  aunt  best  beloved  by  a  merry 
band  of  nieces,  and  nephews — is  it  not  the  elderly  maiden 
one  ?     Is  it  not  she,  who  strings  the  kite,  makes  the  ball, 
and  kindly  lays  aside  her  own  employments  to  minister 
to  their  wants  or  amusements  ?     And  if  an  "  old-maid," 
as  she  is  disrespectfully  termed,  should  happen  to  have  a 
peevish  temper,  or  too  much  self-love,  are  all  married 
women,  amiable  and  free  from  selfishness?     She  may 
have  causes  of  irritability  of  which  the  world  knows  noth- 
ing,— broken  health,  protracted  and  painful  diseases,  and 
the  consciousness  that  she  has  no  one  to  minister  to  her 
in  her  hours  of  sickness  but  hired  menials,  no  arm  upon 
which  she  can  lean  in  her  feebleness,  or  no  sympathizing 
heart  to  feel  for  her  or  to  bear  her  complainings,  with  pa- 
tient love  and  endurance.     These  surely  are  enough  to 
cloud  the  brow  and  effect  the  temper.     And  should  these 
involuntary  infirmities  be  made  the  subject  of  ridicule 
and  mockery  ?     Should  these  failings  shut  out  a  suffer- 
ing, lonely   being   from  our  sympathy  and  tenderness? 
Surely  JroSt!  Every  heart  that  is  susceptible  of  kind,  or 
generous  emotions,  must  feel  the  cruelty  and  injustice  of 
considering  such  an  one  a  fitting  subject  for  flippant  jests 
and  silly  merriment, — and  will  acknowledge  with  me  that 
she  who  has  no  "  children  to  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed," 


212  CONCLUSION. 

and  no  husband  or  son  to  protect  her  gray  hairs  from  in- 
sult or  wrong,  has  double  claims  upon  our  charity  and 
compassion. 

The  fear  of  being  called  an  "  old  maid,"  has  been  the 
cause  of  more  domestic  misery  than  many  are  aware  of, 
and  many  a  woman  has  thus  thoughtlessly  thrown  her- 
self away  upon  the  first  one  that  offered,  however  un- 
worthy, and  has  given  her  hand  to  the  man  to  whom 
she  could  not  give  her  heart,  thereby  sealing  her  own 
unhappiness  for  life.  The  reasons  for  remaining  unmar- 
ried are  in  many  instances  creditable  to  the  head  and 
heart  of  those  who  continue  so.  Some  are  high-minded, 
intellectual  women,  who  could  not  stoop  to  ally  them- 
selves with  those  whom  they  could  not  truthfully  promise 
to  love,  honor  and  obey,  and  others  are  those  who  have 
been  unable  to  overcome  the  effects  of  a  disappointment  in 
early  life,  or  whose  faithful  constancy  to  the  memory  of 
the  loved  and  lost,  would  never  permit  them  to  transfer 
their  affections  to  another.  If  their  respective  histories 
could  be  related  to  the  young  and  thoughtless  who  have 
made  them  the  butt  of  their  cruel  levity,  how  would  the  re- 
cital make  their  cheeks  bum  with  shame,  if  they  were  capa- 
ble of  feeling  remorse  for  having  wounded  the  feelings  of 
those  who  were  richly  entitled  to  their  respect  and  be- 
nevolence. In  my  own  pilgrimage  through  life,  some  of 
my  happiest  and  most  delightful  companions  have  been 
those  of  my  own  sisterhood.  In  the  society  of  the  intel- 
lectual among  them,  I  have  passed  many  pleasant  hours 
in  listening  to  their  gathered  thoughts,  or  to  their  inter- 
esting reminiscences  of  the  past.  Even  in  my  earliest 
years  I  found  their  company  attractive.  Ana  in  my 
childhood  I  often  used  to  sit  on  a  low  stool  at  the  feet  of 
an  old  lady,  while  she  entertained  me  with  her  recollec- 
tions of  the  scenes  and  characters  of  our  ^evolutionary 
history.  She  loved  to  dwell  on  its  soul-stirring  incidents, 


CONCLUSION.  213 

and  to  speak  of  those  whose  names  have  become  hallow- 
ed on  account  of  their  service  sin  the  cause  of  freedom. 
And  the  time  passed  by  me,  unheeded,  as  I  heard  her 
describe  the  melancholy  Pulaski  as  he  sat  alone  and  ab- 
stracted, musing  on  the  fate  of  his  unhappy  country,  or 
the  elegant  Count  Rochambeau  who  in  the  pauses  of  the 
toils  of  war  would  mingle  in  the  ball-room,  gayest  among 
the  gay.  Or  when  she  spoke  with  reverence  of  the  dig- 
nified, heroic  Washington  —  his  country's  idol  and  trusted 
hope  —  and  with  fond  admiration  of  the  young  La  Fayette, 
enthusiastically  entering  upon  that  service,  which  he  left 
wife  and  home  to  aid.  It  gave  her  great  delight  to  re- 
count all  that  was  done  by  the  women  of  those  days, 
their  willingness  to  endure  toil  and  privation,  their  self- 
denial  in  relinquishing  every  luxury,  and  their  active 
patriotism  in  behalf  of  those  who  were  fighting  their 
country's  battles.  She  would  tell  me  of  those  females^1 
who  volunteered  their  assistance  in  clothing  the  tattered 
and  barefooted  soldiers,  encamped  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  city,  and  with  what  zeal  and  untiring  industry  they 
proceeded  in  their  labors  in  cutting  out  garments  and 
making  them  up,  that  the  poor  ragged  troops  might  be 
comfortably  appareled,  before  they^  started  on  a  danger- 
ous and  toilsome  campaign.  I  have  often  sat  and  listen- 
ed to  her  interesting  relations  for  hours,  and  never  grew 
weary,  for  the  animation  and  enthusiasm  with  which 
they  were  delivered,  excited  my  attention  and  left  them 
indelibly  impressed  on  my  memory.  She  possessed  an 
unfailing  fund  of  cheerfulness  and  good  humor,  and  the 


*  I  have  often  heard  it  stated  that  one  of  those  patriotic  females,  cut 
out  five  hundred  pair  of  pantaloons,  and  so  efficient  was  the  aid  she  ren- 
dered, that  her  name  and  services  attracted  attention,  not  only  in  those 
days  when  so  many  women  did  well,  but  she  was  still  remembered  by 
the  great  and  good  La  Fayette  forty-three  years  afterward,  when  he 
became  our  "  Nation's  Guest." 


214  CONCLUSION. 

very  sight  of  her  pleasant  countenance  was  like  a  gleam 
of  sunshine.  Her  sister,  who  was  near  her  age  and  also 
unmarried,  was  one  of  those  quiet,  kind-hearted  beings, 
whose  whole  thoughts  seem  engaged  in  providing  for  the 
comfort  and  happiness  of  others  ;  one  whom  we  always 
describe  as  "  motherly,"  because  she  looked  on  all  young 
persons  and  loved  them  as  if  they  were  her  children. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  tender  sympathy,  and  she  seemed 
to  feel  the  sorrows  of  others  as  deeply  as  if  they  were 
her  own.  Age  and  bodily  infirmity  could  not  chill  her 
keen  sensibilities,  and  I  have  seen  her  eyes  fill  with  tears 
and  her  lips  quiver  with  emotion  as  she  stood  and  looked 
on  a  touching  scene,  while  younger  hearts  remained  un- 
moved. It  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  witness  the  affection 
that  existed  between  these  two  aged  sisters ;  each  one 
considered  the  other  as  her  peculiar  care,  and  their  con- 
tinual thought  seemed  to  be,  in  what  way  they  could 
best  promote  each  other's  well-being.  My  ideas  of  "  old 
maids "  were  first  formed  from  seeing  these  warm- 
hearted, kind  and  happy  sisters  and  my  frequent  visits 
to  them  are  among  the  most  pleasing  recollections  of  my 
early  youth.  For  their  sakes,  even  in  my  younger  days, 
T  was  always  the  defender  and  apologist  of  elderly  un- 
married females,  and  could  never  bear  to  hear  them  dis- 
respectfully called  "  old  maids,"  or  made  a  subject  of 
ridicule  without  expressing  my  contempt  towards  the 
silly  jester  in  warm  and  unmeasured  terms  of  indigna- 
tion. 

But  to  return  to  my  own  history.  I  arn  now  in  my 
sixtieth  year,  and  a  happier  being  than  I  an>  cannot  be 
found  in  any  domestic  circle  in  the  country.  My  two 
adopted  brothers  have  grown  up  to  manhood  under  my 
care — into  estimable,  talented  and  worthy  men.  Charles 
became  a  farmer  and  settled  himself  down  at  Oakwood, 
and  the  last  time  I  saw  him  and  his  lovely  wife  and  chil- 


CONCLUSION.  215 

dren,  they  were  as  cheerful  and  contented  as  industry, 
health  and  intellectual  enjoyment  could  make  them. 
And  my  Edward,  who  claims  me  as  a  member  of  his 
own  household,  is  a  promising  lawyer  in  a  city  not  far 
distant  from  Glenwood,  and  has  been  married  several  years 
to  one  whom  I  love  as  a  daughter.  Glenwood  cottage  is 
our  summer  residence  and  it  has  lately  had  an  addition 
built  to  it,  to  accommodate  Edward's  increasing  family. 
It  being  the  latter  end  of  the  merry  month  of  May,  we 
have  just  taken  up  our  abode  in  it  for  the  ensuing  season. 
If  I  thought  there  was  any  probability  that  young  la- 
dies would  be  tempted  to  declare  against  matrimony,  I 
would  not  have  confessed  so  freely  how  happy  and  con- 
tented I  have  always  been  in  my  single  blessedness. 
But  I  know  very  well  that  ry)t  one  among  them  will  be 
disposed  to  follow  my  example,  if  she  should  happen  to 
meet  a  man  whom  she  could  love,  particularly  if  he  should 
happen  to  love  her.  So  that  I  think  there  is  no  danger  of 
my  strengthening  the  ranks  of  the  maiden  sisterhood  by 
my  representations.  I  believe  still  that  a  married  life  is 
the  happiest  condition  on  earth  when  the  husband  and 
wife  are  bound  together  by  an  undying,  changeless  affec- 
tion— when  they  are  mutual  helpers  in  each  other's  trials 
— when  they  voluntarily  bear  each  other's  burdens,  ten- 
derly minister  to  each  other  in  sickness  or  sorrow,  and 
go  hand  in  hand  through  life,  tender-hearted,  forgiving 
and  affectionate,  one  in  their  happiness  and  welfare  on 
earth,  and  one  in  their  hope  of  immortality  in  heaven. 
But  for  all  this,  a  single  life  has  its  own  happiness  too, 
different  in  its  kind  yet  differing  but  little  in  its  degree. 
That  this  is  true  my  experience  has  abundantly  proved. 
And  who  that  could  see  me  now  seated  in  the  porch  with 
Edward's  eldest  son  standing  by  me,  his  arm  round"  my 
neck  and  his  book  in  his  hand  ready  for  his  daily  les- 
sons, and  the  little  babe — the  last  born  and  the  pet,  rest- 


216  CONCLUSION. 

ing  on  my  lap  and  striving  with  all  his  winning  ways  to 
concentrate  all  my  attention  on  himself, — would  not  ac- 
knowledge that  an  old  maid  can  enjoy,  all  the  pleasures 
of  maternity  without  its  pains  and  its  trials,  and  believe 
with  me  that  Ellen  Maitland  in  her  old  age  is  as  happy 
as  the  happiest  of  the  schoolmates  of  Oakwood. 


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IWfl  ItJv 


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